


I’ll Do You One Worse

by spoonerisms



Category: Selection - Fandom, The Selection - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 130,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23205709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoonerisms/pseuds/spoonerisms
Summary: Rather than Laila Toil, a Seven from Panama is chosen to represent her province in Prince Maxon’s Selection.
Relationships: America Singer/Aspen Leger, Clarkson Schreave/Amberly Schreave, Marlee Tames/Carter Woodwork, Maxon Schreave/Reader, Maybe more? Still working it out
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	1. The Good, The Bad, And The Overqualified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl from the southernmost part of Panama is interviewed a bit more extensively than the other Selected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Just a fair warning that I’m very, very, very new to ao3, so forgive me if my writing is horrible and the formatting’s all off :’) I promise everything will get better soon lmao. Constructive criticism is appreciated!
> 
> Preemptive knowledge: in this story, everything about the protagonist is characterized by you except for one thing—which is that she has relatively long, white hair. For plot purposes.

"Thank you again for saving me an extra, Mme. Canmore." You thumbed the parchment, reveling in the indentations of the envelope's ink heading. "At least for me, it's difficult to find one."

The librarian smiled at you, her blonde curls tickling the dimples donning her peppermint cheeks as she slid yet another stack of books across the checkout desk. "Of course, dear!" She crowed. "It'd be a shame if-"

"-A fine young lady such as yourself couldn't apply." The wax sigil gleamed in the illumination the casino provided, polished to the point where you could make out a familiar-faced man wiping a glass.

"You flatter me, Mr. Normandy," you hummed, shifting in your stool. Your other hand rested on the base of your Shirley temple, fidgeting on occasion. "I'm just not sure if I'd even qualify, given my caste."

The owner, setting down his thoroughly cleaned glass, frowned. "It's not like you earned your place at rock bottom, Skylar. You were dealt a pretty bad hand. It's not your fault that-"

"-Your father was about as spineless as an invertebrate." Even the scent was admirable. "Take it from me, they'll eat you up." The teacher winked at you, their smoldering eyes somehow warming you like how a campfire provides to a camper. "Seven or not, you're one of the brightest girls I've met. Shame you're cooped up in this side of town."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mx. Nidiffer." You looked up to the elder's smug face, the poorly placed lights within the windowless classroom flickering concurrently. It was almost comical.

With that pitiful synchronization, the instructor motioned to the claustrophobia-inducing; cockroach and rat infested; somehow simplistic yet still wildly unorganized environment in all its grandeur.

"This place, Coraline! This one-room school, these run-down roads, this-"

"-Utter mess!" Félix slurred, raising his bottle of whiskey in drunken rebellion. You let your head fall onto the arm rest of the flea-ridden, it's subpar cushioning enhancing your discomfort. "Kids like you... these days... fucking.."

"Maybe you should put the bottle down, sir," you coaxed. "Drinking isn't allowed here."

The man, situated on the other side of the sofa, laughed and subsequently coughed. "What the hell are those baristas gonna do? Kill me?" He ran a hand through his greasy hair, flint eyes twitching as he continued to sputter short sermons.

"'S not my fault they let us in. Did they expect a d-d-d-daycare? Ugh, my head..." Félix hunched over, grabbing fistfuls of his old coat and pulling them over his shoulders. "Anyways.. Seraphina, you're a lucky bastard. I dunno what tightass Two threw that letter away, but it must be a sign or something. So what, this-"

"-Is the only letter you've gotten from somebody?"

"It is," you said, pressing the letter's firm corners into your curious fingertips. "Once again, Mrs. Miller, thank you for giving me one."

"Oh, stop it." The brunette scoffed, waving a hand. "It's not like Penny would sign up, pretty sure she plays for the other team. Now get off my lawn, kid. You're great, but the landlady's doing rounds today. I can't be seen giving handouts to the homeless, you know?"

"Of course. Have a nice day, ma'am."

"You know I will."

Angela Skinner, Veronica Taylor, Daniella Baker, Myra Shepherd, Ruby Fisher, Dominique Gardener..

Coming up with random names is a little bit fun.

You piled your pre-made personas unto the many Selection applications you had accumulated, your delicately pondered descriptions of fictional bachelorettes attached to each name.

He'd have to like at least one of them. You've seen how he is on the Report whenever you could find a television in a store's window. 

One application was left, bare and seeming to stare at you. It's odd to think the eyeless glare could make you gag.

It was odd to think that, with all these other finely woven personas, the crown would fancy you. The real you.

Name? Uh. [F/n] [L/n], you guess. As much as it worried you to use your actual name on an application, this was going to be you. You'd have to forge enough birth certificates and other identification as is. But it’s not like they take care reviewing southern censuses..

..It's been to long for them to find you. You know they don't remember your name. You know it. You're being irrational. Yet...

You press your pen against the first stroke of your surname. God, just do it.

In a method similar to taking an ill flavored medicine or ripping a bandaid, you wrote down your real surname.

You're a Seven, have been for awhile. You haven't gotten on a scale or against a wall in awhile, so you'll guesstimate on the height and weight.

Hair color? You tugged at a starch white lock, feeling the brittle strands struggle beneath your fingers. They'd likely be less keen to accept white than something like, say, platinum blonde.

At least you knew your skin and eye color with enough certitude.

And now the difficult part.

Languages spoken? Special skills? Should you go all out or keep it believable?

You don't want them just throwing your entire resumé out, but you have gone through enough enough immersive experiences to list an impressive number of each. They were one of the many effects (and rare benefits) of forced assimilation.

Well, it's "however many languages are spoken here" and "whatever earned money" versus "one" and "nothing." You're sure prestigious activities like sparring, art, and your arsenal of instruments would satiate the state. You'll go with your best eight languages, too.

That's realistic enough. But you've never read of a Selected girl with this many qualifications, so you couldn't simply hope that they'd believe you.

Thus, your wide array of collected hair dye, clothing, and colored contact lenses would finally see the light of day. The best of your applications will be delivered.

How you were going to dress yourself up to a high enough caliber the Selection would consider a Seven? You'll figure it out.

What matters is getting to the castle.

*

Miss Stewart ended up reluctantly helping you with your many picture presentations. She seemed oblivious to your true intentions after coming to her multiple times and asking her to help you with a dress or a wig, whether it be her apathy or lack of observance.

Still, with those personal deficits, she didn't let you down. With her own touches of cosmetics she hid from her husband, your face had practically swapped with a Three's. You couldn't help but stare at this anomaly in puddles on the streets or windows as you made your way to get photographed.

Rosalind Carver was a cute blonde with honey brown eyes; Natasha Smith was an elegant, near black brunette with a stunningly turquoise glare; Ophelia Weaver's hair was on the fence of auburn with eyes as black as flint; etc, etc.

There was really no way to lie about your caste, so you put all your girls down as Sevens, maybe Sixes.

All of them went in and took their pictures. Everything went smooth as butter.

So why is it the real person out of all of them was the one pulled aside?

"[F/n] [L/n]?" The woman's eyes narrowed at her clipboard, then swung up at you. "...Could you come with me for a moment? Before we take your picture?"

You tried not to sound phased. "I don't see why not," you spoke, and soon followed the women into a side room of the bumbling building.

As much as you were glad to get out of this suffocating atmosphere—boys and girls alike were pooling in from the outside—the room you entered was nonetheless unsettling in a different way.

The lights had dimmed, and the only unregulated noise was the clamor of a failing air conditioner. Not unequal to that of a television interrogation, the main event in the room was a mahogany table complete with two chairs and a set of papers placed in the middle. You could recognize some as your own information amongst the files.

Someone sat on the other side of the desk. A very professional-looking man, whose onyx hair was near gelatinous in its sheen. He wore a crisp, jet black suit, close to his hair color.

For awhile, his hands were folded against the desk, eyes of coal studying you. The inefficient lighting gave you little information of his face besides it's strong and deep contours carved by shadows and an inferred stubble and sharp jawline through the distortion of the reflected light. He hadn't moved an inch.

You remained standing behind your designated chair, careful not to show trepidation on your face but steadily gripping its wooden sides.  
His steely eyes finally twinkled, some emotion you couldn't decipher within their shine, and he opened his mouth.

He then asked you to sit down in Mandarin Chinese; introduced himself as Gideon Friedman in French; asked you how you were doing in Spanish; informed you of the capital's suspicion of your application in Italian; told you he'd be asking a series of questions in Arabic; that if you had nothing to hide you'd be fine in Russian; and asked in Japanese if it was true you knew all of languages and instruments you had listed on your application.

To add salt to the wound, you responded to each jab in the used language.

Gideon appeared surprised, though pleased nevertheless. "The fact you seemed to comprehend them is promising enough. A Seven such as yourself wouldn't lie to the crown, I hope?"

"Of course not. Are you a polyglot as well, Mr. Friedman?"

"Call me Gideon. I'm around 40 or so years younger than your average advisor." Gideon was grinning now. You noted the worn crease that formed on his upper lip. "King Clarkson's principal advisor for foreign relations. Rather than proficiency in eight languages, I'm bordering native fluency in two hundred."

Well, first of all, you tried not to choke on your own spit. "Are you a- a savant or something? And they sent a principal advisor?"

Gideon shook his head. "Monolingualism runs rampant in the castle walls, so I was the only one on hand in such short notice. I'm no savant—only a Two who grew up knowing the only thing that mattered to him was the art of linguistics. But a polyglot Seven? That's an oddity."

"Perhaps more so a polymath." You smiled. "You need to be a jack of all trades to stay afloat in lower castes."

"You also mentioned on your application that you played several instruments. You're a terrifyingly formidable Seven, [F/n]."

"I'm not nearly an expert in anything I've said."

"What would you consider yourself an expert in? Any talent, that is."

"At the very least, game theory. My father specialized in the branch, and taught me all he could manage to fit in a toddler's head. While I don't remember him much, my sister was sure to build off of his tutelage."

"Where are your father and sister now?"

You had to answer truthfully. You had to get in. Friedman seemed liberal enough. "Missing and dead, respectively." Gideon's expression faltered, as did the confidence in your rapport. "Well, that came out a bit candid."

Gideon swallowed. "I'm sorry."

"It's in the past." You fought to keep the dialogue light.

Gideon's onyx eyes dropped to his fiddling hands, and he cleared his throat. "I'm sure you're aware why you were pulled here by now."

"To test my application's credibility? I suppose. I don't have an iota of concern that you'll prove me wrong."

"...Right, then." Gideon rearranged his papers. "In that case, Lady [F/n], welcome to the Selection."

"I'm sorry?" 

"Believe it or not, [F/n], but the average eighteen year old cannot speak eight languages."

You felt an abnormal amount of heat rise to your cheeks, and Gideon adjusted the papers on his desk. "Nor play multiple instruments, many other fine arts, all the while being a caste so low those above Fours would refuse to talk to. Much to the chagrin of my superiors and coworkers alike, you're the embodiment of overqualified.

"The crown's retinue had prematurely decided to automatically enter you if your application rang true, which it obviously has."

"Are they not curious about the rest of my resumé, then?" You frowned. "I didn't think my linguistic aptitude would be the most surprising thing on there."

"Oh, no." Gideon wove a haphazard hand. "They'll still be testing you, but not currently. The rest of your skillset would prove as swell entertainment for the public, so your other trials will be broadcasted during the Selection." He looked up. "If you're alright with that."

"I doubt I have much of a choice." You were too busy checking the length of your hair to get that perturbed. "But I have an inkling that the other contestants won't doing the same, if you would like to confirm or deny that?"

"They will likely not." The gentle crinkles in the paperwork Gideon shrouded his face with shifted. "And I have no justification for it other than prejudice."

"I see."

"So, you're in." Gideon rose from his chair, letting his borderline card stock hit the desk with a dull slap. "Of course, we won't tell those outside that they've been overlooked, but you're the victor."

"Ah." Enthusiasm had been slowly but surely bubbling up your throat ever since Gideon announced your acceptance, but you only now had to reel it in. "Thank you."

"No need." Gideon flicked his wrist, a large, dimpled smile having seized his face. "Thank you. I look forward to seeing you on castle grounds.

"But before I let you go, is there a specific place you'd like us to rendezvous to when I come back in a few days? I'll be needing to deliver something to you, but the address you put on your application leads to a comics café."

"Oh, yeah, you wouldn't want to go there." Where's a place you knew that would be mid tier for a royal courtier to go? "When you were first arriving here, did you pass by a strip mall, by any chance?"

"I did."

"There's an Ethiopian restaurant there. It's quite quaint."

"Noted," Gideon said. "You'll see me there in two days at noon, Lady [F/n]."

You allowed Gideon to see you out the door and to the photo booth.

*

Weeks later, seeing yourself on the news proved as little surprise. Same with the others.

Observing the quotidian, obambulating citizens go about their day only to practically drop dead while hearing the number Seven on the naming of the Selection candidates. They'd look around, thinking they'd find you laying in a cardboard box the next block down. Matter of fact, you were right next to them, wearing an oversized hat and sunglasses.

Interesting how those things work. It was even more entertaining watching interviewers scamper around the less affluent areas of your providence in hopes of running into you at a thrift shop.

Gideon, on the other hand, had no trouble locating the grocery store's cafeteria you had told him about. He relayed necessary information during this meetings, but nothing else.

Unless, naturally, you asked. "Do you speak any Bantu languages?"

"His Highness prefers my focus on languages from Indo-European and Sino-Tibetan families, but I've learnt Swahili, Xhosa, and Zulu in my past time.

"And, I'm sorry to ask." Gideon's finger had been lingering over a string of sentences on his paper. "But I have to confirm your chastity."

You grinned ruefully into your cup of tea. "What is this, the 17th century? Yes. Don't sacrifice me if I'm not to his Majesty's taste."

Gideon cleated his throat for the eighteenth time and dug his nail into the fine text on his instruction sheet. "Ahem. A future queen of Illéa should save herself for marriage. It is recommended you remain sexually abstinent during the Selection process. Adultery may result in your expulsion from the Selection."

Intrigued, you tried to wring something out of him again. "Oh? I've heard many stories of princes indulging in their debauchery during their Selections. Do they face similar standards?"

Gideon made a guttural noise deep within the back of his throat. "No."

"Hum."

"Lady [F/n], to save face, I'm not sure Prince Maxon's been made aware of these conditions," the noiret lamented. "The infamous bachelor of the Selection's concerns are traditionally obfuscated in the final weeks of preparation."

"I could always bring it up somehow," you offered. While keeping your spot safe, of course.

"For your safety, please don't. You could be punished if you upset him." Gideon stirred his drink and sighed. "There's not many people in the palace who would tolerate the difference of opinion."

You smiled. "Where would I find you, then?"

Gideon blinked. "Oh," he spoke a moment after, and let out a little chortle.

"Near the end of the Mars hall." A half-smirk befell his features. "It leads to the training grounds, as well as the royal family's wing. You're as likely to find myself there as Prince Maxon watching the knights spar."

"Is that so?" You pondered, cheap innocence rippling in the undercurrents of your voice. "I'll make sure to keep that confidential. For his privacy, of course."

"Of course."

And another week passed. Your exit from the province wasn't at all spectacular as the silent limousine ride came to a halt by the airport.

Nobody bore any admiration towards you as you walked through the carpet towards the plane. No news caster came bounding over to you, papers fluttering about. No spectators ogled at you or asked for your autograph.

You were primarily fine with it, though. They'd like you soon enough.


	2. A Contesting Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well, let’s take a look at the menagerie! Reader is introduced to a handful of people, some of which she impresses, and others she offends.

As soon as you were on the ground, everyone was hurried off to receive a makeover. You didn't even have time to investigate how everything looked before you were greeted with a gaggle of people. They lead you to a platinum blond with amber eyes, who let out something of a squeak.

"Holy smokes!" Was the first comprehensible thing that came out of your stylist's mouth as he sat you down on a chair. "I got the albino! Is that your real hair color?"

You pursed your lips, but nodded nevertheless. "I'm not albino, but I get what you're saying. It turned white when I hit sixteen."

"Wowza, that is some hair, isn't it?" He had side stepped you, running fingers through your locks with wide, glittering eyes. "How long is it?"

"I wouldn't know." You watched the brunet rub a single strand between his forefinger and thumb. Whatever revelations he found, he gasped at them.

"This is.. weirdly elastic!" He exclaimed. When he looked up to you for what you could only assume to be personal input, you had no explanation for him. "Wait- hold still."

Without waiting for your response, your stylist shoved his hands into you hair. You could only make an animalistic sound of surprise as he shimmied his fingers against your scalp.

Another gasp leapt out of his throat. "Eugh! Why's that so wiry?" That's a jab. "And greasy?" Ouch. "Anyways.."

You felt a pluck, and an over-dramatized whistle. "Dang. Did you see that stretch? That was least half its original length."

"What?" You tried to make sense of it all, but the stylist was chattering about something you could no longer hear or probably comprehend. It sounded like noise pollution to you.

"Just give me the verdict," you spoke a little louder, and the sidebar died off. The stylist cleared his throat and patted your hair.

"We can't just do it wrong by putting it up in some measly bun. Do you know how quickly it grows?"

"No."

"When was the last time you had it done?"

Uh. You can't say a few years, can you? What sounds reasonable? "Eight months ago."

"A trim, or..?"

You could answer that. "I cut it right above my shoulders."

"What the heck?" He asked, letting your hair fall to your back. "That's at least an inch per month. You know what? It's fine. This is fine. I can work with this."

Great. Wrong guess. "Go on ahead." You raised your hands with a hesitant smile. "Do whatever you'd like. But be warned, I've never worn a formal dress or any heavy maquillage in my life, and I wouldn't trust myself to preserve anything ambitious."

"Dang it!" He snapped his fingers. "Did you grow up in a pigsty or something?!"

"Casinos, primarily." Your stylist stared at you far a good minute before ushering you off towards his attendants. "Please go easy on me!" You called after him.

They did go easy on you, thankfully. You were bathed to the brink of your skin falling off and then put in dress of gamboge that, while an eyesore, allowed maneuverability. You were also given kitten heels, which minimized your trips.

You got photographed once or twice, given an interview too short for you to plug anything of substance in, and thrown into your room. Greeted with three maids, at that.

They seemed happy to see you, but equally as cautious. And relaxed, if that made any sense.

On the left was a stocky, tannish brunette with eyes that burned like cigarettes, whereas the one on the right had raven black hair, dark eyes, bronze skin, and a walk like how willow branches swayed in the wind.

In the center of the trio was was a pale, petite girl with golden curls that bounced on her shoulders as if they had they were their own entity. Her eyes were a twinkling chocolate brown, and they only seemed to lighten as she spoke.

"So you're the Seven, right?" Straight to it, then? You nodded. She nodded. "I'm Anima! Nice to meet you, milady!"

The slim brunette raised her hand, but didn't match your eyes. "I'm Marca."

The last one's voice was barely better than a sigh. "Zafira."

All the three of you really did was play cards and examine your room, which would most definitely need some improvements.

You mean, weren't you in a castle? Did they make everything ridiculously plain to keep from stunning you? Jokes on them, you'd already mentally prepared yourself with Gideon.

There were a decent amount of instruments, though. Paint supplies, too. Whoever designed its interior didn't seem to care for your martial arts background, though—there wasn't a punching bag in sight.

After a decent length of time, you decided it'd be best to make a name for yourself. After wishing your maids well, you went off to befriend every person you could find.

Essentially, all you'd do was hang around their post until you could make them laugh, engage in a light banter, ask a couple of questions, and leave.

Doing this, you got to acquaint around a dozen knights before some thin woman grabbed you.

"Silvia?" The lady frowned. You fought returning one. What had you done already? Were you going to be eliminated? You couldn't be eliminated yet.

What sounded far too similar to a growl escaped Silvia's throat. You couldn't. "You-"

"Lady [F/n]!" You heard bounce through the halls. Silvia released her grip from you, her eyes the size of saucers and locked onto something behind you. "What a pleasant surprise!"

You followed Silvia's gaze. Oh, how could you ever forget that thought-provoking hue of jet black hair? "Gideon?"

"G-Gideon-?" Silvia repeated, eyes wide, and then turned back to, well, Gideon. "Sir Friedman! What brings you here?"

"Evening, miss Silvia." Something in Gideon's voice would imply he had tried and failed to persuade Silvia in dropping her formalities. "I was only walking through, though it is a delight to see Lady [F/n]! Mind if I steal her for a cup of tea?"

"Oh, Sir Friedman, I'm terribly sorry, but Lady [F/n] is horrifically underdressed to be seen anywhere outside her room." The woman's eyes flickered back to you, and her gaze hardened. "I'm not sure how much of your stylist's work you've done away with, but it was too much."

"Ma'am, I haven't augmented a modicum of what my dressers have done," you spoke slowly. "I suppose they preferred me with a more modest look."

Silvia, remarkably, looked stunned. "Is- is that so?" She blustered.

"Lovely!" Gideon hovered a hand above your shoulder. "In which case, I'm sure her current dress isn't an issue. If I may, then!"

A hand tapped between your shoulder blades, and you allowed it to guide you away from Silvia and to Gideon's side. Though you were not looking directly at him, and instead at the decor of the corridor, you saw his bangs tilting in your direction.

"I want to show you off to the royal retinue," he explained in a quick whisper. "They've always considered the lower castes uneducated, and I can't resist the temptation."

"Lower castes are uneducated due to the fact that our wondrous government fails to educate them," you rebutted sourly. Gideon nodded with such aggression you'd mistake him for a life-sized bobble head.

"Precisely! Oh, wait, here we are." You and Gideon halted in front of two towering doors encrusted in what you thought to be sapphires. "Okay, lets."

"You still haven't necessarily-" Gideon pushes open the doors to reveal a room unlike any he previously depicted to you.

A wide, airy room of cream accents and a domed ceiling painted with stars flooded your vision. Windows of stained glass fragmenting the mountainous views and cyan skies behind, and chandeliers fashioned out of antlers tingled with silver pangs above.

Inside was what seemed to be the highest echelon of businesspeople and advisors, sitting amongst themselves around glass tables with chessboards and the occasional mahjong.

An unimpressed blond was the first to speak. "Friedman, what on earth do you think you're doing?"

Gideon did not answer automatically. He strode into the room, turned on his heel, and beckoned you closer.

Only after you meandered towards him, he framed you with a magnificently overdone hand gesture.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

You weren't one to be embarrassed easily, but this was a different beast.

"This is Lady [F/n] of the Selection, who I've spoken so ardently of." You scanned your environment for a nice hole to hide in.

"I was called to test her legitimacy after her application had been reviewed, to which she wrote that she was a multi-instrumentalist, visual artist, fencer, and a polyglot."

Gideon turned to you and winked. "Of course, her form proved true, all the while being a Seven. If not, she was being modest.

"Another special skill of hers that Lady [F/n] omitted from her resumé was an expertise in games. Since we've all been starved of intellectual enrichment in light of the rebel attacks, I've brought her here as a means of entertainment—and likely challenge—for you all."

The entirety of the room was radiating waves of either awe or skepticism, and their mutters were in no way shrouded.

"As lovely of a story that is, Gideon," the same man interjected. "What I was going to inform you was that Prince Maxon is in the room."

Gideon covered his mouth and bowed in no direction in particular. "Oh, good lord. Forgive me, your Majesty."

"It's quite alright, Sir Friedman," some voice called from somewhere in the room. "I'm sure Lady [F/n] and I are of enough class that we can keep this early introduction to ourselves."

"Class?" Okay, this time you could see a silver fox near the front of the room glance down to an obscured body. "Your Majesty, she's a Seven. Practically the antichrist of class."

The room was filled with a low tide of humored rumbles. The only sign of disagreement were those on the younger side of the cabinet eyeing their salt and peppered peers.

As much as you wanted to slap the man across the face, you said nothing.

The politician remained unimpressed, and turned to Gideon. "While her papers were formidable, are you sure she passed all of the-" he glanced back to you. His gaze didn't meet your eyes; in fact, they hit below. "-Other requirements?"

You felt your veins begin to hiss.

"Now, now," a voice purred, it's alleged owner hushing the growing tension as they emerged from the crowd. "We shan't doubt the meticulousness of the Selection's lottery. It's served us well for the past century."

Prince Maxon, smiling, regarded his retinue with the outstretching of his hands, but didn't look at you. "Instead, let's welcome Lady [F/n] to our teatime and continue on. I want to finish my card game."

"A card game?" You echoed. You were subsequently ushered over to a table by Maxon's tiny, temporary clique.

On the cerulean-tinted table was what looked to be like a variation of poker. Five community cards were spread on the center, whereas a pair of face down cards were aligned with lavish chairs.

Texas hold 'em? The traditional chip wasn't being used, though. The neat little stacks of collateral beside each seat looked to be made of...

"Are you using those in lieu of poker chips?" You asked. The players returning to their seats paused. "And if so, are they pure metal?"

"I'm sorry?" A man asked. "Why do you ask?"

"Apologies if I worded that oddly. Those just don't look like official Illéan currency."

"Ah," said another, older cabinet member with a wry smile. "It's lesser used, but still in circulation. Americanese coin, if you've ever heard of it."

Americanese currency? As in that unreliable, shaky USD-RMB hybrid the American State of China made that less than a tenth of Illéa uses? Ew.

"Don't worry your pretty little head trying to revert it to our monetary system, just know it's a lot," the man interrupted your thoughts with a mangled coo, picked a wafer-thin disc of silver from his stack, and winked.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.  
"Is it issued by a monopoly that thereby collects seigniorage? If so, what's the amount? Or can anyone coin them?"

The previous man interjected once more. "Technically, anyone can coin them, but some banks are more trustworthy than others."

"Have those banks agreed upon a standardized system of coinage?"

"Yes."

"Are the coins worth anymore than the metal?"

"No. Their value stays the same, other than a coining fee of, say, a thirtieth of the metal's whole weight."

You stared at the mounds of metal. They looked to be made primarily of gold, with some few and far between silver stragglers. Classy.

"What are you thinking of, my dear?"

You spoke, honestly, pretty absentmindedly. You weren't even sure you addressed the person. Or who the person was.

"Illéa's silver-to-gold ratio with has grown in the last century with a mean of 45:1 and standard deviation of 6. It would be impossible to preserve the exchange rate if Illéa strayed anymore than, say, 14% from the Americanese sterbon-to-shekyen ratio of 28:1," you said. "Arguably even less."

You could already bring a ton of silver into an Americanese bank, make them silver pieces, exchange them for gold pieces, take the gold pieces to an Illéan dealer, and exchange them for far more silver you had initially. It's too exploitable.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Another member interjected. "If you're worried about that, I'm sure you've noticed that these shekyens and sterbons are far smaller than Illéan change. Their technical value is less."

"I'm sure we all know the finer points of arbitraging away market inefficiencies is lost to the producers of Americanese coin. Even then, unlike Americanese coin, Illéan coin is made of sterling, which is worth less than pure silver. If you want to talk technicality, despite size difference, the material of the latter coin gives it a higher value," you replied.

Silence reigned once more. "Yes," said the member. "I suppose. But in the case of a crisis, the government would support pivotal financial institutions."

"If-" you started, but tensed as someone patted your knee.

"Come on, sweetheart," an old man, the perpetrator, soothed. "Have some trust in the royal family and enjoy the game. We're handling whatever concerns you may have, just not while playing poker."

Well, you tried. You returned to examining the amount of money on the table. It was probably for the best someone manually shut you up before you offended someone, anyways, even if it wasn't by the best means. You and your blabbermouth.

It seemed primarily sterbons were on the table. 20 sterbons weighed a fifth of a Troy pound, and gold was 20,500 units a Troy pound last time you checked. Each sterbon is 20 crowns, then?

But there was a lot of them. Each, besides Maxon, had around one to three stacks between 20 and 60 coins high. Despite sizing differences, certain tiers of players seemed to have similar sized piles.

"All in." One of those higher tiered players pushed her pile to the center, and a tension you weren't bothering with grew.

Almost everyone folded. Almost. The only other player whose mound of coins matched the high tier's called, and shifted their own pile into the middle.

"Those bastards'll split the pot." You heard somebody exclaim. Though it was distant, as blood was in your ears.

This newfound sterbon pyramid was approximately 40 coins high with a base of 5x10. That's 700 sterbons. That means each of them has 350 sterbons each, and seeing as the other five, lower skill players (excluding Maxon) have around a third of those two's amounts...

You snorted as the two checked and slapped a hand over your mouth soon thereafter.

"Hm?" One of the players looked up from their cards to you. "Did I miss something?"

"No, I-" you shook your head and wiped the oncoming sweat off your palms. "Apologies—I might be rusty on order estimations—but are you all playing with 30,000 crowns on the table?"

"Order estimations?" A player inquired.

"You might know it as a fermi estimate?" You proposed.

"A fermi estimate?" Someone else butted in.

"It's a mathematical party trick? You know, like.. well, I've surmised that approximately 30,000 crowns are on the table. I didn't expect such an amount, is all."

"It does seem too stingy for us businesspeople, doesn't it?" The old man you had grown to despise chirped, reaching behind himself and pulling out a moderate sized suitcase. "We aren't misers. Let's up the stakes a little!"

From the case, he took out one of several worm sacs bunched together inside and poured the contents out.

Milky light danced across their etchings as sterbons upon sterbons scattered across the community cards.

"Friedman, [F/n], why don't you join? I'm distributing 1,400 sterbons to each of us. It'd be a strong start!"

That shot the amount of money on the table up to 330,000 crowns.

Sparks of iridescence bounced off of the glittering metal like dew-littered sunflowers. The fluorescence seemed to make them glow.

Gideon laughed, but shuffled away from the table. "I'll pass on that."

You found your seat at an empty chair opposite the old man. "I don't see why not."

*

"All in." You pushed your chips forwards.

Everybody folded as easy as they'd breathe. Even the small circle of high stake betters you were playing with rang in sounds of dismay, with the occasional "I'm out" or more colored commentary.

There was one person, however, who was having a difficult time with his decision.

The old man across from you stared at his cards, which he had begun holding to his face near the middle of the round.

His face was still, but his hands twitched. He would mouth things to himself, look over to you, and shake his head.

As his jaw was snapping open and shut, Maxon began to chuckle. "Today if you can, Sir Wojnaroski."

Wojnaroski sighed and tossed his cards  
face up onto the table. Two jacks. "I fold. What'd you have, kid? Don't think could sleep tonight if you didn't show me."

"If you so insist." You flipped your cards over to reveal a pair of eights.

Shock, and then clamor. Businesspeople rose from their seats in heated acquiescence, making wild gestures towards your pitiful hand.

"Nothing," someone croaked as you shifted the accumulation of coins towards you. "You had nothing. That's it. I'm done playing."

"Aw, come on, everyone." You inspected how the fractured light hit a sterbon. "It's not like there's much on the table. You all make nine figures, don't you? Let's learn from our mistakes."

"Learn from our-" somebody gasped. "You had a straight flush last time someone called you!"

You rolled a coin around in your knuckles. "Then how about we switch to regular ole five card stud?"

"Unfortunately." Maxon rose from his seat, sterbon-less. "I'm afraid I'll have to intervene. Sorry, gentlemen, but I think we've all lost a fair amount to Lady [F/n] within the hour." He paused to let his grin broaden. "Well, you all and my father."

Skewed chortles bounced throughout the room. "Perhaps it'd be in our best interest if she remained unchallenged for the remainder of our break." His eyes befell you, but averted. "Apologies, my dear, but I cannot have you impoverishing my courtiers."

You made a giggle slither up your throat and hoped it would mask your twitching shoulders.

Men twice divorced and thrice your age would call you such things. The feeling that would overcome you was never a good one, and it didn't feel any different when it came from a person you'd consider a peer.

"A wise decision, my esteemed," you bit back, hopefully with enough wit and curtness to have gotten the point across in a lighthearted fashion.

Your attempt failed. "Pardon?" Maxon asked. You didn't grimace too noticeably when a spectator behind you let out a gruff sneer.

"Watch your tone, Seven." Their voice was much closer, now—breath brushing the hairs on your neck. "You might not have registered it, but you're conversing with the crown prince of Illéa."

You tried to mask the instinctive jerk of your head. You tapered, but recovered with a strained. "Of course!"

"I'm-" Maxon's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry, what did you just say to this woman?"

Rather than mortified, the counselor only seemed further bemused. He straightened his back. "Maxon, my boy, no need to fret; an Seven such as herself merely must be made aware of the etiquette here. Cultural differences and all."

"Is that so?" You had a feeling the issue that was making Maxon's tone so bitter it left a sour taste on your tongue wasn't the one at hand. "Perhaps you all could've informed me of such "cultural differences" so that I could've prepared appropriately."

"Oh, Maxon," the sickeningly sweet voice of an old man started. "It truly didn't concern you. It's a complicated subject, and we already-"

"I'm sure you've already made accommodations for it, Sir Han." Maxon ran a hand through his well-gelled hair. "However, my father isn't getting any younger. I'd appreciate if you all could start introducing me to all of my duties I'll have as king besides party coordination."

"Oh, please," someone murmured. "You're only a child."

Maxon's expression darkened. "Would a child be starting the search for his wife in less than twelve hours?"

"You do not take that tone with us. Such empty-headed remarks are-"

The dichotomy between the heated mutters from the younger side of the room to the nonchalant gloats of the older were impeccable.

You, on the contrary, quietly resigned to stare at your chips and listen to the argument escalate. You wanted to observe more of the phenomenon, so when you felt someone tap you on the shoulder and turned to see Maxon, you deflated.. "I suppose I've overstayed my-"

"Out." Maxon's voice cut through the clamor, and Gideon grimaced. "All of you."

Both the youthful and elderly poles stirred, muttering in Maxon's unacceptable, intolerable behavior. But both left.

You were still in your original spot, your stacks of sterbons obscuring part of your view.

From what you could see, Maxon returned at the sapphire table and proceeded to massage his temples. Gideon had broke away from you and sat adjacent to him. He put a hand on his back.

Nobody said anything until Maxon decided there was something to be said.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

You had already fabricated a retort that would, scientifically speaking, kiss up to him the most effectively. "It's alright. From what I could follow, I agree with you, anyhow."

Maxon sneered. "Really? 'Twas awfully quick of you to butter me up. I wonder why?"

Okay, so he caught you red handed there, and that did bother you.

However. If one thing could set you off, no matter how agreeable and poised you tried to be, it was men talking down on you. "If it's criticism you want, that display only reinforced their belief that you're just a toddler with a crown."

You only now realized Maxon was staring at you with saucer-shaped eyes, and you cringed. "..Your Majesty," you supplemented.

"Ha." Was the only warning Maxon gave you before he started to roar with laughter.

Both you and Gideon jolted. Gideon recovered before you.

"Christ, Maxon, you're going to rupture a lung!" Strings of snot shot out of Maxon's nose just as Gideon hopped over to him, splattering onto the table. "Eugh! Ew!"

Maxon stoped to stare at this predicament, and just as sporadically as he quieted down, his body was racked with guffaws twofold the intensity as before. "Maxon!"

"You're right. Oh my god, I'm so fried." Maxon's crazed laughter skidded to a halt as he looked to Gideon, dragging his hands down his face. "No, no, I get it. Poor conflict resolution. I get it. I'm sorry, Gideon. Girl."

"[F-" You wanted to correct him, but by now so much as sneezing could get you eliminated. You kept perfectly still so as not to disturb him.

The prince tugged at his hair. "It's the Selection. It's getting to me."

A tight frown overtook his expression. ""Here, my dear son whom I've never so much as looked at 'till tonight, take thirty girls and choose one to have as a lifelong partner, ideally within several weeks." Give me a goddamn break."

Gideon looked over to you as he gnawed off his bottom lip. What, did he want you to comfort him? This isn't your business.

"And here I am." While words were gushing from his lips and regally reckless motions were being made by his hands, though Maxon's eyes were glued to the table.

You glanced back to Gideon, who was gesturing to Maxon. "Say something!" He mouthed.

You threw your hands into the air. "Why?" He'd know what to say better than you would!

"-Finally having reached my breaking point, and there's Gideon and a Selected girl over there who are perfectly fine. I should stop talking to myself. Ugh! I'm still doing it! And they're whispering about me, like the idiot I am. Why am I still talking out loud?"

You and Gideon promptly shut the hell up. When neither of you jumped to respond to that ramble, you decided to bite the bullet. "Well..

"You look stressed, not foolish." You looked over to Gideon again, who was refusing to face you. Thanks, buddy. "I don't mean to assume, but it seems like this isn't the first time your counselors have overlooked your opinion."

"It's not so much of an assumption if you're right." Maxon stood up with a slam on the table. "They always do this. As well as- no, especially my father!"

The prince turned to Gideon, his voice broken. "I wasn't trying to disrespect him! I couldn't even if I tried! No matter how much I hate the man, I always find myself bending over backwards for his praise! Urgh-!"

Tears you didn't notice were in Maxon's eyes away were flicked away by him, and he slapped his cheeks. "Why am I crying? There's nothing to cry about! Pull yourself together!"

Maxon sat back down with a clunk, and you looked over to a wide-eyed Gideon. When you tossed a thumb over to the door with a cocked brow, the advisor—chewing his lip and glancing between the exit and Maxon's shaking figure—shook his head.

"This is so unfair," he sniffled between his hands, and then lifted a finger to you. "Woman, you've now seen me throw a temper tantrum at my council of advisors and angry cry. Tell me something personal about yourself."

"I don't think that's how dyadic conversations work." You were still looking at Gideon, whose skin now matched the hue of most vomit.

"I don't think that's how replying to your prince and actual heir to the throne of Illéa works," he said. "Listen, I implore you. You know about all of my stupid stuff. Our dynamic is skewed."

"In my favor," you added.

"Alright, fine." Maxon crossed his arms and leaned back on his seat. "How about if you satiate my needy conscious, I won't kick you out right here, right now?"

Shit. Maxon was edging over the table by the time you admitted defeat. "Did you have a specific question?"

"Why'd you sign up for the Selection?"

Oh, wow.

You gave the prince a long, deadpanned look, which hopefully masked how it felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of ice water over you.

Did he know?

You waited for him to take back his ponder. He didn't. "I can't tell if you're terrifyingly dense or terrifyingly observant."

"The latter." He flicked his wrist. "I just want the confirmation."

He knew. You shivered, but nodded.

You took in a deep breath and hung your head. "You're right, your Majesty. Very shrewd of you." Maxon nodded. "I don't mean to offend you. On the bright side, you have one less courter to worry about."

Gideon fell into a horrific fit of coughs, and Maxon lifted his head. "Sorry?"

You looked up. "Sorry?"

"No, the thing you just said." Maxon pointed to you.

"What?" You felt like you'd been kicked in the gut. "Huh?"

"That I have one less courter to worry about."

Oh dear god. 

He had no idea what you were talking about. 

Apart from hearing yourself make a noise similar to choking, the only thing you could muster was a "I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did."

"Did not."

"You aren't here for my hand?"

He was messing with you. "Well, I'm sure you're a fantastic person, your Majesty, and prepossessing, but, uh, but the only thing that was on my mind when filling out that paper was how it'd advance my agenda."

Great, now you're past the point of no return. Gideon's erratic chuckles filled the air. "Maxon, Lady [F/n]-"

You raised a hand, clenching your teeth. Don't try to salvage it. "-Thought that being bumped from a Seven to a Three just by getting into the process wasn't that bad an idea, and that the situation would be a fine way to earn a reputation if she played her cards right."

You eyed the two nobles. "However brief, and however romantic the limelight is in lieu of political."

There was a pregnant silence that reigned. Maxon was the one to, yet again, speak first.

"Ah," he said, and looked down. "So you don't fancy me." Aw, you almost felt bad.

"Was this thought somewhat reached in the midst of my hysterics, or your plan all along?"

"The.." You eyed the prince's feeble form, hunched over on itself and picking at its temples. "The latter."

He sighed again, and you were starting to feel a bit sympathetic, too. The sadness and frustration and all around negative emotions were coming off of him in waves.

"There's no need to debilitate yourself," you finally said. "It's not like you cracking under pressure was uncalled for."

"I suppose."

"Nor did it prove a nuisance to me or Gideon, lest we would've left. Well, he would've left and taken me with him."

"I suppose."

"Surely you didn't expect yourself to masquerade contentedness and chivalry for this entire time?"

"I.." Maxon took in a labored breath. "Suppose not, no. I just didn't think it'd result in... well, this."

"Well," you said. "If it's any consultation, at least the dam broke in front of two affiliates rather than over 1.439 billion people."

"One affiliate and one acquaintance," Maxon corrected, and you mocked a harrumph.

"You wound me. Have I not told you enough embarrassing stories about myself?" Maxon didn't respond with anything other than an affirmative-sounding(?) noise, and you cleared your throat. "Alright, here's one:

"According to my sister, when I was little and learning how to swim, I ate a bunch of chicken before going into the pool. Naturally, I ended up swallowing a lot of water and throwing it all up—including the chicken."

Crude cackling slipped from Maxon's mouth, and he promptly slapped a hand to his bottom jaw.

"And then little me went: "oh, post hoc ergo propter hoc," and went vegetarian for two years."

More sinister snickers slithered their way up Maxon's throat. "Okay, chicken girl, perhaps we're now closer to acquaintances than before."

You were astounded. "I'm sorry, but I did not just tell you one of my most difficult experiences as a child for you to call me chicken girl."

"Respectable," Maxon said. "Give me another nickname for you, then."

You considered your options. "Poultry pal," you concluded. It's unisex. "Kidding, please don't, [N/n]."

"Dear lord," Gideon sighed as Maxon hooted. "Last time I checked, the two you were 19, not 9. There will be many regrets from this in the morning."

"Oh, shut up, 'Deon," Maxon was smiling nevertheless. "Let me have this moment of lightheartedness before tomorrow comes."

"Tomorrow?" Gideon echoed. "Max, it's well past midnight. Tomorrow is today."

"You're serious?" Maxon's briefly human air around him dissipated in the blink of an eye, and he rose from his seat. "Surely you're joking. God.."

You stood up, as well. "I suppose I should find my way back to my room, then."

"Will you need help?" Gideon asked. "Navigating the castle can prove distressing at night."

"Thank you for the concern, but I'm certain I'll be fine." You smiled. "I hope to see both of you tomorrow."

"You aren't taking your money?" Maxon motioned to the sterbon stack by your desolate chair. Your shoulders feeling rather loose today, you shrugged for the second or third time tonight.

"What, do you have a bag?" You shrugged. "Isn't everyone else having theirs converted to Illéan coin and delivered to their quarters?"

"She has a point," Gideon said.

Maxon turned to Gideon. "Did you mean to disagree with me?"

"Did I mean-" Gideon cut himself off. "Oh! No! I swear, I-"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" Maxon nudged him, glancing over to you and flashing a warm smile. "Goodnight, my dear."

Again with the pet names. You grasped your shoulders in hopes to cover the goosebumps. My dear. My dear? How old is he, 50? What's next, sweetcheeks? Sugar? Not like he could come up with anything more creative than that.

"You don't have to pretend you remember my name." Maxon's cheeks flared. "I'm [F/n]. [N/n] or poultry pal if you're short on time."

"Ah. Uh, ahem-" Maxon coughed, and opted to stare at your pile of golden gambling chips as you made your way out the door. "Well, then. Have a good night, [F/n]."


	3. Up By Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader irons out some bumps in her new relationships and gets an invitation soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so basically these chapter summary things are more difficult than I thought so from now on they’ll be Rick and Morty style vague.

"Milady, please!" Anima bleated for the fifth time in five minutes. "We need to get you ready!"

"I prefer hedonism to readiness, thanks," you grumbled, eyes still shut and smothered in your pillow. The tugging of your nightgown persisted. "What time is it?"

"4:30 AM!"

"What?" The very pronunciation of that time was angering. "Why? You've woke me up yesterday, not today!"

"Because of your beauty routine!" Anima insisted. "Especially with that hair of yours!"

You tried to dig further into your pillow, and a jolt of pain shot up your scalp. "Ack!"

"Zafira!"

"Well, it's working," the maid in question countered. You felt another sharp sting at the nape of your neck, and you only realized Zafira was pulling at your hair until your upper body was suspended.

When your vision refocused, Zafira's astonishingly vantablack gaze was eye level with you. "Get up, from a Six to a Seven rather than the maid to her Selected."

You grabbed a fistful of your hair and ripped it from Zafira's grasp. "Let go of me."

"Come on, guys," Anima said. "Let's not do this at 4:30 in the morning, please?"

Marca sighed. "Z, she's a Three now, not a Seven. You can't boss her around even if she was one. Castle before caste."

"Thank you." You slid out of bed, and Zafira averted her gaze. "See? I'm a big girl, I can get up well on my own."

"Sorry," she muttered.

"Don't fret over it." One had to be quick to forgive about such condescendence, anyhow. 

You straightened yourself. "Your nonchalance was actually a nice segway into my hopes that our dynamic will be more friendly than anything. I'll be needing it against the.. you know."

All three maids gawked at you, to some degree. Zafira's only sign of startle was the cock of her brows, whereas Anima's jaw was on the floor.

"Just think of yourself as facilitating my cultural assimilation. I'll be needing help figuring out how to walk in heels." Your touch of (bad) humor allowed Anima to situate her mouth.

"Oh, but we can't tease you?" Zafira sneered. "This feels one-sided."

You harrumphed, tucking a few strands of hair behind your ear. "Fine. You may. But nothing demographic related."

Whatever Zafira's response was, it couldn't be heard over the sudden growl of your stomach. 

You shielded your stomach from reprimand. "You can bully my borborygmi, but you're on thin ice."

"Breakfast is at 8:30," Anima was quick to change the subject, and she lead you into your penthouse-sized bathroom. "Try not to eat if you feel hungry before then. You'll stuff yourself there."

The chill of the marble floor sent soft shocks every step you took towards what looked to be a bathtub, gently guiding your resurface into consciousness. "What do they serve?"

"What do you like?" Marca, who has placed herself in a stool by the bath, countered. "They have everything."

That was easy. "Chanko Nabe."

The tub wasn't too large, and resembled the bottom of a genie's lamp more than anything. Except it wasn't made of bronze. On the contrary, lacquered white gold encapsulated swirls of opal in its carvings. Lining the sides was a myriad of pastel-themed bottles and ampoules.

"Er," Anima said, drawing your attention away from the garish appliance. "Maybe something more.. English?"

"I don't know." Tough questions given that I'd 4:30 in the morning. You ran a hand through your hair. "Cereal? Am I not showering?"

"Uh, no?" Marca asked more than said. "You're taking a bath."

"Huh." You scratched your head. "You'd think they'd still prioritize hygiene over luxury, but alright. I'll be out in a jiffy."

"No, you won't," Zafira said.

There was a pregnant silence.

"Okay." Your squinted eyes swept over the trio. None of them would meet your eyes. "What's with the shroud of vagueness over this process? It's not like you're going to be washing me or anything."

*

"Milady, please keep your head still," Anima soothed. "I assure you it doesn't hurt."

You whimpered and, against all better judgement, fought the urge to inch away from Anima's hand.

"It's fine. Look, put these on." Anima turned away from you and rummaged around in supplies out of your line of sight. She pulled out two slices of cucumbers. "Trust me, you won't even be able to tell the roller's on your skin."

"Oh, man," you heard Zafira call as your world went dark. "If microdermabrasion gets you all squeamish, wait 'till we move onto acupuncture in a half hour."

Your squeal was that of a lab rat's. "What? No!" The very thought of all the hands on you.. "No! You better be joking!"

And squirm you did. You heard the water, bath salts, apple cider vinegar, and tea tree oil solution you were currently marinating in, splash about as well as your maids' squeaks.

Zafira cackled, but you could feel no slowing in the frightening intensity at which she was buffing your nails at. "Wouldn't it be funny if I wasn't, though?"

"Forgive my commentary, miss, but wow, your feet are calloused," Marca grunted, pumice stone working against your fighting toes. "I've been dousing them in mouthwash and vinegar for god knows how long and I think I'm making it worse."

"It have an antibacterial scrub up here," Zafira replied. "Just steam them again or something and make sure to get the nails in almond oil."

"Z, that file's gonna shatter if you keep up that speed," Anima scolded. "Is that how you handle glass near bare skin?"

She was being truthful when she said you wouldn't feel the tiny pricks of jade breaking your skin. On the contrary, Zafira squeezing your fingers together as she wore down each nail made your breath hitch.

She stopped her brutal filing and grabbed your wrist. After what you'd think was a once-over of your steaming nail, she hummed and dropped it onto the side of the tub. 

"I guess. Who has the petroleum jelly?... Thanks. What else for nail beds?"

"I have the master list over here." Following Marca's call, a familiar flopping of laminated paper overlaid the sloshing water. "In addition to cuticle cream- uh, you already have jelly- baby oil."

"I could've done this myself, you know," you said, ensuring your stomach area was submerged and out of sight. The three maids exchanged a giggle. 

"Maybe," Zafira said. "But the question is, would you be willing to? And how efficient would you be?"

"Afterwards, we have to keep her hands and feet in mashed banana for 15 minutes," Marca continued to read. "Massage olive oil into the skin-"

"Alright, I get it," you said.

"-Further moisturize with rose water, honey, and argan oil, and tie plastic bags around her wrists and ankles for-"

"What?" You half-gasped, but tried not to take in any water. "You're just handicapping me!"

"Sweet!" Zafira chirped. "She cant run away! Does the lip treatment involve gagging her, by any chance?"

"Does a loaded lip scrub, oil, and balm applied via toothbrush count?" There was a pause and more fluttering paper. "That's a lot of shea- what? Who added raw beeswax? Where are we even supposed to get that?"

"Why was whoever made that list so morbidly curious about my complexion, anyways?" You asked. 

"We were, of course. We compiled this schedule from what Queen Amberly's maids did," Anima said removed the cucumbers from your eyes, and now laid rose petals atop them. "Sorry, milady. It's in our best interest that we follow through with this no matter how extensive. It's only a morning routine."

"This process would be taking much less time if you had gotten to your room at a reasonable hour last night." You could feel Zafira's eyes burning a hole in your face.

"I didn't have much of a choice on the issue. One of the prince's affiliates dragged me to some lounge."

"What?" Anima butted in. "Why? What happened? Was the prince there? Isn't that against the rules?"

"Just some crown advisors. I was just treated like a pony show for an hour or two, nothing too exciting." You wrinkled your nose. A.. pungent, citric scent had made itself known to your nostrils. "What's that smell?"

"Oh, that's probably just the onion juice or lemon zest," Anima said.

"The what?"

"Uh, and lime juice, milk, jojoba oil, egg yolk, fenugreek, sesame, and tonic water? We're supposed to massage it into your eyebrows for seven minutes."

"What if it gets in my eyes?" 

"Well, it's a good thing they're closed, then, huh?" She teased. "Don't worry, it won't. The stupid amount of vitamin E oil on your lashes would trap it, anyway."

"You said that this was a more involved approach." Some muddy mask that Anima had been spreading across your face swept over your philtrum, and you sucked your lips in. "How far off course is it from the norm?"

"It's a bit extreme, but not an outlier." Marca still seemed to be working at your lower leg. "If the Selected take anywhere less than two and a half hours to get ready for an event, it's a really bad look."

"So there's no escaping this?"

"Not really."

"It's a little more down to earth than what I'm used to, if I'm being honest," Anima admitted. "I wasn't expecting to use 20 different oils and five different butters on whoever I got. More... I don't know, pharmaceutical stuff. Like amniotic lotion. But a herbal approach is cool."

"Six different butters," Zafira corrected.

"What? No, there's cocoa, illipe-"

"You probably put together mango and kokum again." Marca had finally moved onto your lower leg, applying some type of lotion to it in hurried strokes.

"Ack!" There was something that sounded like a face palm in your vicinity, and then a triumphant chirp farther away. "They always slip my mind!"

In symphony with all other cacophony grainy substance was swiftly slathered onto your inner thigh.

You gasped and almost kicked whoever was holding your leg at the moment. "What is that?" You hadn't even noticed your leg had been lifted out of the bath.

"Huh?" As the cool air surrounding your leg began to hit you, Marca's voice rang out. "Oh, this? Uh, mainly coffee grounds."

"It's mixed with brown sugar, castor oil, and retinoid cream if it makes you feel any better," Zafira added.

"Don't-"

"Zafira, if you're letting her hands set, could you wash her hair out?" Anima was busying herself with dabbing something onto your eyelashes. "I think I left the rosehip oil in for too long."

"Do we really have to go through with this?" You hissed at the unwanted massages on your upper leg. "It's way too laborious and way too tactile."

"I mean, by now, I totally second that," Zafira was fastening something—a shower cap, maybe—onto your head. "This seemed efficient when we were making the list, but I didn't imagine cracking egg whites, spooning yoghurt, or sprinkling cinnamon and baking soda in our lady's hair every morning. I'm a maid, not a baker."

We have to outclass competition," Marca huffed, keeping a firm grip on your tremor-filled leg. "Oi, stop squirming. I don't want to get this mild soap anywhere else than it needs to be."

"I think it's relaxing!" Anima said. "And kinda fun. Look, the henna paste stained my hands."

"And my arms smell like lavender," Marca contributed. "On the other hand, I somehow got flaxseed oil in my mouth."

"If anyone was wondering." Your voice was way higher in pitch than you recalled. "I don't find this at all relaxing."

Zafira managed a very, very exasperated chuckle. "Nobody was wondering, and both of you need to take your own baths after this."

"But it's unneeded," you continued your contentions. "What's bottle gourd extract and rice water going to do for my hair? Or murmuru and cocoa butter for my skin? Is there that big of a difference between a regular and microfiber towel?"

"On the topic of your hair." You could feel Zafira tossing the locks around. "What's the reasoning behind boiling curry leaves and chinese hibiscus in coconut oil just to leave it in for 20 minutes? What even is a hair serum? Isn't that a facial thing?"

"Why waste BB cream on split ends? Why are we using avocado mousse instead of normal styling cream?"

"Why is her skincare routine 20 steps? Why bother with a high frequency facial if we're doing a bunch of peels and masks? Why does she need to wear 5 different sunscreens?"

"Oh, lighten up, you two," Anima jeered, and you felt a cold muddy substance be brushed onto your cheek for the umpteenth time this morning. "We can trade posts—you're over-exaggerating by now, anyways. I don't remember seeing anything like that on the procedures."

Cue harsh flipping of laminated paper and the clicking of probably Zafira's tongue. 

"Apply a sunscreen with SPF 50 or lower to this medical miracle's body, specifically 15 on her hands, 20 on and around her eyes, 30 on her lips, and 40 on her face."

"Really? No, I don't remember it. Give me that." The paper was traded off. "Oh, wow."

"You think?"

"Okay, but consider this," Marca said. "We get to keep all of the beer we don't use in her hair."

"You put alcohol in my hair?"

Zafira fell silent, but soon recovered. "Fine, but I refuse to work on her skin."

"Yeah, okay, grandmas," Anima's tone was now a bitter murmur barely audible against the running water. "Meh."

"Oh, right, I completely forgot," Zafira's own tongue dragged along. "You're a baby. One year below legal drinking age baby."

"Do you wanna switch or not?" Anima reiterated in playful tinge, which was soon accompanied by the shuffling of fabric and clacking of marble. "All you have to do is work on her brows."

"Let me just graze over the steps.." Zafira tutted, and then let out a dry titter. "Oh, of course you did that. Hand her over to me when it's time to pluck her eyebrows. Sure."

"Pluck my eyebrows?" You asked.

"I-?" Anima started to laugh. "Oh my gosh, wait! I didn't mean to! I'm sorry!"

"Liar. This is what I deserve, I guess. Where's the aloe vera?"

"Is there a way we could condense it- ow!- though?" You couldn't keep up with this day after day. It's way too touchy. "Triage it or something? Ow!"

"Oh, shut up." Another sharp pain emanated from above your eyes. "There's, like, four more hairs after this and you're done."

Anima hummed. "Well, we did the research, and turns out we can skip perfume. Prince Maxon has gone nose blind to vanilla at this point."

"Great."

"Zafira, get her to stop shaking." It was only then you noticed something textured running up and down your arms. Bumpy. "I was trying to shave her legs and now I'm scared."

"Just a moment. You look like you're doing just fine with the massage bar."

"Oh," Anima said, and the light touch of petals over your eyes left. "Sorry. I'll put some moroccan oil in your hair and you can get out."

"Hey, hey, hey," Zafira started. Another harsh pluck. "She hasn't started to wrinkle or anything, and Marca and I are still working. What's the rush?"

"Well, we have an hour and a half before breakfast."

"What?" Zafira came to a panicked attention. "Good god! Anima, I'll finish the hair, get her dress!"

And so you were yanked out of the water after hurried conclusion to your routine. Zafira and Anima bolted out of the room; so did Marca, but not before she hurled a towel and a pair of undergarments at your face and screeched at you to get dressed.

That might've been the shortest allotment of time you've needed to get on a bra and underwear, and that's saying something.

The only slow-paced thing that came after this awareness of time was Marca very intently watching you brush your teeth, floss, gargle mouthwash, and then condemn you for forgetting to use some weird machine you hadn't noticed was on the side of the sink.

It's called a water pick, apparently, and it's loud as all hell.

"What did the paper say to do if there isn't enough time to let her hair dry naturally??" Zafira was scrambling for the baby pink instructions, dryer and a pair of scissors tucked underneath her arm.

"I have no idea!" Anima was hoisting a silk tower above her head. "Just layer her hair! Quickly!"

"Marca, you twat, get over here and help me!" Zafira snapped.

"Aah! Coming!" Marca grabbed a bottle and sprayed something in your face. You coughed. "No! You were supposed to walk away after the spray and delay!"

"Milady, stand in front of that high chair!" Anima pointed to something behind you while unfurling your dress. 

"Yes, ma'am!" You speed-waddled to the backless seat. Well, it was high, sure, but if you bent down you could sit on it just fine.

"Turn around and step into this!" Upon obeying, you were faced with the vertical cross section of a creamy white dress that... you would definitely not be able to walk in.

You stepped in akin to a child testing the freezing water of a lake. 

As soon as both of your feet were encouraged in, Anima pulled the dress to your armpits in one foul swoop. "Zip her up! I'm getting the nail polish!"

The maid dashed back into the bathroom and skidded behind you. "On it!"

And the fabric closed around you. The only response you could muster at the time was the choke that accompanied the entrapment of your chest. What were you wearing, a corset?

"Alright everyone, stand back." Zafira cracked her knuckles grabbing your shoulders and planting you on the stool. "I didn't grow up in a household with eleven younger sisters to not learn how to style hair under time constraint."

Marca, who has materialized in front of you, dropped a handbag on your lap that nearly slid off. "I don't know how well white mascara works, but I guess we'll find out today."

"Just put some powder and lipstick on 'er." Anima was kneeling beside you, holding your right hand and unscrewing a bottle that smelt of strong alcohol in her palm with the other. "We don't have time."

"Remember." Zafira's deft hands worked as effortlessly at your hair as they did with buffing your nails. You could see chunks of your hair cascade to the floor as her scissors ran underneath your neck. "No jewelry."

Seriously? "Why's that?" You pressed.

"Well, forgive me, milady." Anima applied a thin layer of heliotrope to your nails. "But seeing as you come from the eighth caste, we assumed you'd be inexperienced with such things. We didn't want you struggle handling anything. The dress was made to compensate."

You smiled. "That's sweeter than I thought the answer to be." Anima chuckled and painted a final, glossy layer on your fingertips. You cautiously wiggled them as they were slid into a compact dryer. "Oh, these'll be chipped as soon as I'm out the door."

As soon as Marca moved to powder your face, you began sneezing and coughing to such an extent Anima asked if you had swallowed a fly. After several other trials and a fallen jar, you were finished.

"Put your hand in here." Anima reared your fingertips inside the device, which gave you a low whir and violet emanation. She wriggled away from you. "Switch to the other once it dings. Whatcha doing, Zafira?"

Ah, so your hands were in an oven. Zafira tossed a thick tendril over your shoulder, which began to itch horrendously.

"Trying my best." Your new hair dresser sounded more tired than you. "Why do you have so much hair? There's no way I'll be able to put this all up."

You thought back to that phantasmagoric sequence with that peculiar stylist. "My cosmetologist said the same thing when I first got here. He left a bit of it down, if that sparks any ideas."

Zafira didn't seem to acknowledge your lackluster advice for a moment, and you felt yourself slowly deflating.

"It does," she suddenly murmured, more to herself than to you, Anima, or Marca.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Anima asked. "You didn't finish the French-"

"Shush. Creativity is happening," Zafira hushed. "Here's the thing: everybody's hair is going to be pulled up in some intricate braid or curl. We want to blend in, sure, but have a bit of personality. Your hair's curly enough that this'll work out."

Your hair started to twist with much more heave than before, and you struggled to sit straight. Unfortunately, this was only the beginning to your scalp's soreness. 

Anima was full of "ooh"s and "ahh"s for the next twenty minutes that your head was manipulated. When Zafira finally released the last of your hair and dusted her hands, you felt dizzy.

"Ooh," Anima said.

Marca had been ogling at whatever scenery was behind your head, as well. "Zafira, you really outdid yourself."

"Thank you, thank you." Zafira brushed her shoulders. "But I think the biggest accomplishment was getting her hair to fall to her mid-back instead of her waist."

"Didn't you cut it there?" You inquired.

Zafira's nose scrunched. "What? No. I layered it, sure, but-"

"Well, they're-" Anima started. "The roses, that is. They're so big and luscious and..." the maid scooted in front of you, and her saucer-sized eyes somehow grew. "Wa-how. It’s all in the details."

"Roses? What roses?" You were scared to turn your head. "You put roses in my hair?"

"Oh, god, no," Zafira grimaced. "I made a bunch of flowers out of your utter excess of hair. No need to thank me or whatever—you're welcome."

You felt a wry grin starting. "Gee, thanks. Can't see it, but I'm sure it looks breathtaking."

"It really does." Anima hadn't blinked for awhile. "Wow."

"We'd get you a mirror, but you really need to go." Marca dropped a pair of wedges in front of you. The dull clack of a wail it made when they made contact with the ground seemed too uninviting. "Now."

You kicked your feet out from under the shimmering silk, sliding the shoes on and standing up with a slight wobble. "Okay, scale of one to ten?"

"Eleven," Anima said.

"Twelve," Marca said.

"Two," Zafira said, smirking as Anima wrung up her sleeve. "I'm just joking, jeez. Don't hit me." Zafira turned to you with a more sincere smile. "Two.. and a half." 

You returned the smile as Anima pinched her slim cheeks. "Ow! Fine! Thirteen. Am I supposed to say thirteen? The hair makes up for it."

"Then goodbye!" You announced, sauntering out of the bathroom and then breaking into a fast paced walk. You saluted to your maids as you slipped out the door. "Please never do that again!"

So you were off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz. After being violated in places you didn't know existed. And as you looked around, you felt... underwhelmed.

God, this castle was seriously lacking in the art and portraiture one would expect from such a wealthy family. 

The halls were beautiful, of course, but as you looked around at the gothic-esque architecture, you saw no hint of notable visuals besides a blandish repetition in etchings of lapis.

So, you made your way to the upstairs foyer just a good ten minutes before departure. You weren't the only one hurrying up the stairs, either—a handful of other girls were tailing you.

You were relieved at that. You didn't want to make your appearance to the Illéan public just yet.

To your dismay, this relief was cancelled out you noticed how not only was everybody's hair was up in fancy, intricate braids, but you were the only Selected who wasn't wearing a colored dress. 

And it soon became apparent that, despite your maid's best efforts, you really would've looked better with heavier touch-ups.

"I like your outfit!" It started with a girl's well-intended tittered as she passed by.

"Oh!" You looked down at your dress, as though ensuring it was still what you thought it looked like. "Thank you!"

"Yeah! It's like, ironic," she called, whipping away into the front lines of the female flurry. "Like, you don't even care what you look like. Hilarious."

And you could tell she didn't mean harm. You really, truly could. 

Was her observation a good thing or a bad thing? You weren't entirely too sure. Chances are it wouldn't look good if your ivory hues were something of a wedding dress. You looked down to observe the opalescence of the fabric in the fragmented light of the foyer. It didn't look like any wedding dress you've seen, so it couldn't be that bad. 

But then, another pair skittered by, arms linked. One gasped. "Who let that chick in? I thought King Clarkson was picky with his women."

The second batted her arm. "Honestly. Well, she’s the Seven, so it’s only natural she was given the worser maids. Maybe she struck some kind of.. deal?"

"Janelle, gross. Keep your voice down. Even then, who would introduce themselves to the prince looking like that? Maybe the vitamins made her sick or something?"

The clench you had on your dress intensifies. You know what? That's fine. This is fine. To your advantage, really. You'd look too competitive if you actually looked decent. Yep. Totally. Mh-hmm. You still had the hair going for you.

"Oh, Jesus." This time, a particularly pretty girl brushed past you, a delicate hand over her mouth. "I mean, none of us got much sleep last night, but that's painful to look at. Do your maids know what concealer is?"

The end game here wasn't to marry Maxon. You told him that already.

Oh. You felt the color leave your face.

You told him that.

You numbly followed the line of girls down the stairs, and Gideon's warning of later regret weighed on the back of your neck like a dumbbell. How much of an idiot did you have to be? Really and truly? And now that it's the morning and he's come to his senses..

You sat down. Apparently people around you were sitting. Upon a brief skin of the environment, you noticed a pack of cameramen and reporters. Oh, shit. What's going on? Not in front of them, please. Not right now. You aren't put together enough for it. 

"Hello again, ladies." Silvia's voice sliced through your jumble of concerns. "I hope you all had a restful first night in the palace, because now our work begins. Today I will begin to instruct you on conduct and protocol, a process that will continue for the duration of your stay. Please know that I will be reporting any missteps on your part to the royal family.

"I know it sounds harsh, but this isn't a game to be taken lightly. Someone in this room will be the next princess of Illéa. It is no small task. You must endeavor to elevate yourselves, no matter your previous station. You will become ladies from the ground up. And this very morning, you will receive your first lesson.

"Table manners are very important, and before you can eat in front of the royal family, you must be aware of certain etiquette. The faster we get through this little lesson, the sooner you get to have your breakfasts, so faces forward, please."

You blinked, and looked around. Wait. Table etiquette? That's so easy. This is so easy. Why does everybody look so stressed out? Maybe you're doing it wrong.

You mentally slapped yourself. No. You've read on such things, surely you could-

"Good morning, ladies." A new voice bounced off the walls. One you had acquainted yesterday night.

Two guards near the entrance to the room had parted, and Maxon arguably glided through. Your pulse spiked.

Calm down. You re-regulated your breathing. Maxon was not going to publicly humiliate and eliminate you. You repeated this mantra in your head as he mingled with Silvia, a conversation you couldn't hear over the blood in your ears.

His eyes scanned the crowd. Maxon was not going to publicly humiliate and eliminate you. Maxon was not going to publicly humiliate and eliminate you. Maxon was not going to publicly humiliate and eliminate you.

His eyes met yours. He straightened his tie and looked away.

Good or bad reaction? Dependable. What matters is that he wasn't going to do anything to you within the next half hour or so.

"Ladies, if you don't mind, one at a time I'll be calling you over to meet with me. I'm sure you're all eager to eat, as am I. So I won't take up too much of your time. Do forgive me if I'm slow with names; there are quite a few of you."

Sure, Maxon. You were eyeing the newscasters as they lugubriously rose. One of them had already fixated on you by your hair, and started heading towards you.

If this really was going to be how it ends for you, you were damn well going to go out with a bang. The biggest thing Maxon would regret would be eliminating you right as the news realizes how excellent of a conversationalist you are.

The reporter was towering over you, his crisp voice needing no amplification by microphone. In fact, he rested the microphone an inch before and below your chin. The camera readied itself behind him. "Good morning, Lady.."

"[F/n]," you finished alongside a smile. Let the games begin.

A couple of peppy comments later, you had them.

"Oh, goodness, excuse me!" The lady turned away from you. While her mouth was covered by her clipboard, it had no effect in masking her laughter. "Ha- sorry! Sorry! Could we take a break?"

The cameraman, who was smiling and pressing an earpiece tucked in his hair, nodded and turned off the camera. "God, Mags, pull yourself together."

Mags' laughter only got heartier. "I said I was sorry!"

You raised a hand between your ladylike giggles. "Mea culpa."

"Come on, come on." He began tugging at the woman's sleeve. "You've been on her long enough. Some other channel reps look like they're about to run us over."

"Lady [F/n]?" Silvia's voice bit your ears in a pang of silver.

Several fidgeting broadcasters encircling your seat groaned or tossed their hands up, but still parted like the Red Sea as you stood. 

You meandered down the aisle to the makeshift interrogation setup Maxon sat by, and almost sat adjacent to the prince before curtsying. Maxon's countenance was unreadable as you shot up, bowed, and went to your seat.

God dammit, you even rehearsed that. But the air was thicker than oatmeal here, and you could feel your strength of improving speeches slip away. 

He looked bothered, kind of. At least inattentive. You decided to break the silence. "Well, how are you holding up?"

"Uh." Whatever was clouding Maxon's eyes seemed to fade. "Alright, I suppose."

More silence. He looked around, and as if seeing it for the first time, pushed a teacup towards you.

"Tea?" He posed. "It's gyokuro."

"Sure," you said a little too quickly. You took the cup and sniffed. "Fukamushi style?"

Maxon blinked. "..Um, yes," he said. "Yes, actually. But, listen, about last night- I don't know how to say this.."

So he was going to eliminate you. "Try your best."

"You weren't.." Maxon inhaled. "You weren't deceiving me, were you? You really aren't interested in me?"

That was an odd way to bring it up. You tried not to make a face. "Uh, no? I only thought you'd appreciate if I made my intentions clear." 

You looked down, feeling your stomach churn. "But I know that's not an excuse, and I apologize if I offen-"

"No, I do, and it's fine, it's just-" Maxon's eyes briefly flickered to the crowd of girls. "There's another Selected who isn't here to compete, it seems."

You rose a brow, and glanced over to the crowd. "Really?"

Judging by his behavior, it didn't seem Maxon had had a long time to process this. He still seemed somewhat stunned, and his nervous tics of hair playing had yet to get the better of his demeanor.

That would mean the perpetrator was somewhere near the back of the rows, likely near the ends. In your assessment, a figure shuddering in your peripheral vision caught your eye.

A redhead. She was staring at her lap, examining her dress with the franticness a bomb diffuser would be reading a manual in a foreign language. The girl beside her nudged her, to which she turned and gave her a shaky smile. Her lips barely parted as she spoke.

Something glistened on the side of her head, and given that she looked bare-faced, it wasn't body shimmer. She wiped it away with twitching digits.

Definitely more on edge than the rest. More dreadful-looking. Your guess was locked in.

"The redhead?" You pondered, leaning over to Maxon. He gaped.

"How did you know?" The intensity of his words made his question sound more like a demand. Not to say it intimidated you. "Do you know her?"

You shrugged. "Not at all, but I like playing detective. What's her story? Is she like me?"

Maxon's narrowed eyes lingered on your loose shoulders for a moment, and he shook his head. "Not really. She just needs the money. To be truthful, I met her while she was having a panic attack near the gardens." 

Peculiarly, his voice hit a diminuendo. "Normally, I think I would've been fine with how she was acting, but after talking with you and Gideon, I was honestly too exhausted.

"It was as if she thought she was the only person in the entirety of the Selection whose thoughts weren't plain sunshine and rainbows. It was arrogant of her to assume m- other's emotional states."

Like that stammer would get past you. "Did she say something that struck a chord with you?"

"She-" Maxon shook his head. "Well.."

"Lethologica?" You asked.

"Y-" Maxon paused, squinting at you. "Yes. Quite the vocabulary you have there."

"One might call me a logophile." The corners of the prince's lips tugged, but faded with a quivering sigh.

"She called me shallow, is all. I guess it just sat wrong with me. I mean, she somewhat retracted it a minute ago, but what makes anybody think I give a damn about this tradition? I'd much rather be married off to some faraway king's daughter."

"I get it," you said. "Honest opinion? Tradition is over-glorified peer pressure from deceased family. But if she really was- don't start laughing."

A mousy smile had cracked through Maxon's demeanor, and you could hear a low thrumming in his chest start. "I can see how you were so amusing to those reporters."

"The only amusing thing to them was the hair, but-" the palpitations in Maxon's diaphragm swelled. "Alright, I'm going to talk over that hiccupy noise you're making. If she really was as beside herself as you mentioned, it's probably best if you cut her some slack. Everyone here's homesick."

Maxon's half-laughter died, and his shoulders sagged for final effect. "True. She did apologize when I called her over, even offered her assistance in helping me thin the crowd. I'm letting her stay for now, but I think she'll be over this by the Elites."

You straightened your shoulders. "That exchange seems mutualistic, though. Do I need to do something in exchange for my spot here? Some kind of quid pro quo?"

Maxon smirked and shook his head. "Oh, of course not. You're my poultry pal, after all. I can't just let you go." 

You were utterly conflicted. "Never say that with camera within a twenty mile radius again." As much as you wanted to say more, no words formed. You hung your head low. "I want to be mad at you, but I've done this to myself."

"Hah!" Maxon spoke a little too loudly at that moment, grimaced, and lowered his voice. "But really, your presence is beneficial enough.

"In terms of coworkers, Gideon is more of my royally appointed babysitter than a friend. Everybody else is at least thrice my age. If you're really set on working with me, there's no problem keeping you here. I'm confident I'd have more interesting conversations with you than the rest of the Selected put together."

That indirect demeaning of the other Selected? Didn't rest well with you. "Whoa, I mean, I'm flattered, but I had a head start. Give them time to show themselves off."

Maxon leaned back on his seat. "Noted. You're also more humble than the rest of the Selected put together. Get an ego and help me with military strategy or something."

"Wh-" Maxon's cackles at whatever expression you wore was arguably more humiliating than public elimination. "How about I hit you over the head with Sun Tzu's Art of War?"

The teasing ceased in a borderline instant, and befuddlement replaced the prince's broad smile. "Sun's the what?"

Well, now you were confused, too. "The.. Art of War? One of the seven military classics of ancient China?" Maxon's flummox persevered. "You haven't read it?"

"Can't say I have."

"Wait-" you felt Silvia tap you on your shoulder. "What have you read, then? Any of Kissinger's work? Schelling?"

"Neither." Maxon nodded to Silvia at looked down to his wristwatch, rubbing his eyes. "Then, it appears our time is up."

Silvia "helped" you stand, and you sent a glare Maxon's way. "This conversation isn't over."

The heir apparent smiled and waved you off as you returned to your seat. "I'm sure it's not."

You barely had any time to sit down before you were escorted into the dining hall.

You tried to start conversation with the Selected adjacent to you, but most of them were busying themselves slowing their breaths. You weren't sure what the source of their discomfort was until you noted that the number of Selected had dwindled.

You brushed it off. Valid. You were fine inspecting the hall's decorum.

The silence only withered away when breakfast started, but at that point, you couldn't care less for small talk.

You didn't realize how starved you were until you took a bite of scrambled eggs. The only thing you could compare the epiphany to was someone who had gone without water for days drinking for the first time.

You ate everything that had the lack of luck to creep it's way into your eyesight. Newfound nutrients flooded your body, and your mind responded with euphoria. For the most part, you couldn't register the taste of the food, rour system just demanded more of it.

And then Maxon arrived. You think. Somebody did. You didn't think twice to stand up. But the break in your concentration as the girls around you rose was enough to snap you out of your haze.

You looked at your hands. A half-eaten croissant was in them, the sequins of sugar that coated the bronze crust nodded at you knowingly.

You'd vomit it all up later.

What were you thinking, gorging down all of this? Your eyes fell to the table's center, and your stomach only twisted more at the sights of the banquet.

There was still a piece of mechanically digested croissant in your mouth. You couldn't get yourself to swallow it.

"Lady [F/n]?" You heard Maxon quip. You jolted, no doubt visibly, and looked up.

You blinked. Wasn't he talking to some girl just now? You had heard his lighthearted chirps mingling with someone in the background of your epiphany just a minute ago. Was your horror that obvious?

Your eyes flashed across the room. Only Maxon seemed to look concerned, whereas the only emotion that fell everyone else's face was bewilderment.

After a brief moment trying to swallow the lump of bread in your throat, you opted to sign 'Yes?' in ASL. His smile faltered.

Ha. Unbeknownst to those around you, you only knew to sign "yes," "no," and "I don't sign" in sign language.

This gave you enough time to swallow the wheat sludge and mask a shudder.

"Yes, your Majesty?" You reiterated, repeating your hand motions to concrete correlation.

«Are you alright?» Hopefully your double take didn't manifest physically. «Gideon told me you spoke Russian.»

«Clever.» You made a discreet gesture to your throat. «I shouldn't have eaten this much. The most my body is used to digesting for breakfast is a deep breath.»

«Why's that? Do you need to be excused? Don't feel obligated to stay here if you're feeling ill.»

You waved him off. «There's no need to make a scene. I'll be fine for a half hour. Thank you, though.»

Maxon frowned. «Would you like any probiotics?»

"Maxon," his mother said as she placed a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, but a smile had split onto his face in a click of blinding white.

"Apologies, ladies. It's a prince's duty to rise to a challenge if presented."

You remained silent for the rest of breakfast and cradled your twisting gut.

With those notes, breakfast concluded, and Maxon continued preparations for a date with that one redhead. 

When you returned to your room to write a letter to family, or so Silvia had put it, the maids were crowding around your bed.

"Milady!" Anima was the first to notice you, and poked her head out from behind Poonima's svelte profile. "There's, uh, something for you on your bed."

Your eyes dropped to a shock of tangelo on your bedsheets, and you shouldered past Marca. "What is it?"

A neatly folded suit, undershirt, and pants lay on the foot of your bed. An envelope and letter opener lay atop the clothing. The royal crest was pressed to the note's wax sigil.

"Is this as much of a surprise to you as it is to us?" Zafira looked over to you, her face indescribable. "Because I'm pretty confused."

"I'm.." Lady [F/n], it said. Tentatively, you took it and the tiny knife in hand. You dragged the blade through the adhesive. "I think so?"

Zafira smacked Anima's hands away as you pulled out and unfolded the glossy paper.

'Lady [F/n],

The crown has been made aware that you've no family to write to.

As you've been informed, to ensure your honesty in your application, the crown has decided to test a random assortment of your special skills during this allotment of time.

Please dress in the given garments and go to the end of the Mars hall. Do not take anything with you. You will await further instruction there.

Illéa Above All.'

The Mars hall. Gideon's voice arose in your head.

"It leads to the training grounds."

"Huh." You set the letter down. "Apparently I'll be fighting someone."


	4. By The Teeth On Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader, once again, proves her legitimacy to the Crown.

"These fabrics are crazy," Anima breathed, running her hands along the billowing flounces of your blouse's sleeves. "Do you realize this is mulberry silk?"

You fluffed out the ruffles on your chest curiously. "I realize it's silky."

"And weird." Zafira fanned out the silk shirt's train. It's frilly layers brushed your knees. "Normally people wear a tailcoat, not a tail-undershirt."

"Sure, but look at this monstrosity." Marca ran a finger across the pleats of your beige trousers. "What kind of color choice is this?"

"But its Siberian sable! Oh my gosh!" Cue dramatic gasp. "The suit! Is this vicuña?" Look at this embroidery!"

The suit was a rich shade of rose, outlined in flowery, gold-dusted appliqué. The intricate though metallic trim took great strides to beautify the garnet buttons and popped lapels that would no doubt rub the skin off your chin.

You winced at an imaginary you getting her blouse caught in the cuboctahedron buttons. "Won't the ruffles get caught?"

"You won't." Marca gestured to the gemstone near where you'd presume your waist would go. "It's probably one of those things where you only do the middle one."

The two other maids made small hums of affirmation. Your hum was of perplex. "Then why have the other buttons?"

"Because it's fashionable." Zafira took the suit from Anima's hands and began to pull your arms through. Each time your fingers would graze the fabric, a feathery warmth blossomed up your arm.

"I don't understand." Your upper arm was now enveloped in the cushion of a sleeve, said soft sensation swiftly spreading to your shoulders.

"Not only is this far from armor of any kind, but fashion is meant to amplify, in my case, feminine features to make me look more suitable a mate. Signs of fertility such as wide hips, ample bust-"

"Trust me." Marca smirked, pinning a ruby red brooch over your adam's apple. "You look plenty fertile."

"Yeah, thanks." You hit Marca on the shoulder. "In any case, it's influenced by biology and psychodynamics. What does buttoning the middle of a suit do to strengthen my chance to reproduce?"

Anima pointed to a floor mirror by the entrance to the bathroom. "Well, for one, your waist looks super tiny."

You looked over your figure in the mirror and made a face. "It so does not."

"You're serious?"

You quietly grabbed the untainted, white combat boots beside your bed as your maids fell into uproar.

"Oh, come on!" Zafira, with no consent from you, grabbed you by the waist. "This is beautiful!"

"Eek! Hands off!"

"She has a point, you know." Anima rubbed her chin. "You look really pretty right now."

"If you all are finished freaking out," you said. "Do you think you could do something to get my hair out of the way for my upcoming duel?"

"Oh, right." Zafira disappeared behind you. "That. I could make a braided low bun, but it'd be heavy."

"Better than having it down," you said as Zafira began to run her fingers through your hair. "I wouldn't want anyone trying to grab it."

"Grab it?" Anima repeated. "Why would they? You're not dogfighting."

“You can never be too sure."

"You might never be too sure, but you could always be too paranoid." Zafira gave a fistful of your hair a firm, merciless yank.

"The man who sleeps with a knife under his pillow is foolish every night but one." You reached behind you in an effort to pull that section of hair out of Zafira's grasp, but only ended up chipping off some of your nail polish. Anima was not happy with your antics.

After 10 minutes of grueling pain, your new hairstyle was finished, and you were out the door again.

The Mars hall was... that way, right?

Near the end of the corridor, a shout hit your ears with a siren like wail, albeit hidden behind one of the walls.

There was commotion with words you couldn't discern. Before you could try, a door flew open and a figure emerged, shielding its mouth in one hand and ripping hair with the other.

"Don't you walk away from me!" You heard a voice follow the hunched man.

When it turned, and the moment it ran into you, you could just make it out to be his son.

"Your- oof!" And so you hit his chest.

"Uh?" Maxon withdrew his hands, wide and misty eyed as he looked down. "Oh, [F/n]." He jerked his hands into a neat fold in front of him and smiled. "You have a knack for finding me at my not so finest times. What are you doing here?"

Now that it had been brought to your attention, his hands weren't folded. He was cradling his left one more than holding it. It looked to be a darker, cooler shade of his tannish skin.

Maxon must have noticed where your attention lied, because he tugged his sleeve down on his right hand.

"Hey, uh." You avoided his glistening cheeks. "Gideon told me you liked to watch the knights spar?”

Maxon nodded. You nodded. "I believe I'm going down to the training grounds to duel with someone, per the castle's orders. Would you like to watch?"

Even in his somber, Maxon strung together a cheeky retort. "It depends on how good you are."

You grinned, and motioned to the end of the corridor. "You'll have to see for yourself."

So you and Maxon made your way to the end of the Mars hall; more specifically, the training grounds. Silence reigned in spite of the clacking of your boots, but the soft breeze upon walking through the double doors at the end of the corridor muffled the stillness.

The training grounds were a very open-air space; in general, it looked very much how you thought it'd look, given that it's a playground for the elite.

The typical, baroque ceiling of the castle had been replaced with glass, and you were free to bask in the glorious cyan of the sky. Fragmented sunlight scattered across the bleached stone floor, which was a stage of raised, circular platforms and shallow motes.

In the middle of the arena was a statue of Gregory Illéa—the wind blowing through his stone cape, his stone sword planted on the stone ground, his stone smile and eyes looking nowhere in particular.

Surrounding the statue were scars from previous matches. Nicks and unwanted grooves marked the field here and there, though stopped sharp within a certain boundary.

You turned, and to the left and right of the entrance were stairs to large balconies supported by hexagonal columns with Latin script chiseled into them. Lux, veritas, gloriam, it started with, and then went into a very embellished description of Gregory Illéa driving the last of the Russo-Chinese army out of Hawaii.

The mezzanine level came with lounge seats and tables with bolted in centerpieces and pastry stands. At times, your eyes would find a vibrant parasol or a basket of fur blankets near a certain chair.

"Nice place." The juxtaposition was honestly comedic. "Which floor do you think I'll be fighting on?"

"Not too sure." Maxon craned his neck towards the higher boxes as he stroked his chin. He was squinting to the point his eyes were closed. "I think I saw a foil on the second floor?"

"Oh, sweet." You made a slow break for the stairs, and Maxon, snickering, held you back by your sleeve.

"Lady [F/n]?" A voice called. When you and Maxon followed the source, you saw a soldier jogging to you. "Oh- your Majesty! Sorry, was I..?"

"Not at all." Maxon nudged you towards the knight. "I only followed Lady [F/n] here to spectate."

"I see." In addition to black under armor knight was sporting some metal, so you noticed: a breastplate that started below his collarbone and ended above his stomach, rounded couter, and nothing on his lower body besides greaves and sollerets that resembled tin.

It was light, but it was still armor. You presented the topic in a cutesy comment. "Is the lady not allowed panoply?"

The guard chuckled. "Apologies, miss. King Clarkson assumed our usual armor would be a burden for you. It's heavy and not a good fit on girls."

Like you didn't know what was going on. "How considerate of him."

"I'm sure your aware by now of what your test is."

"I'm sure, as well." Your eyes dropped to his hands.

One was tucked behind a circular, dipylon-style shield with sections carved out as though someone had taken a bite on either side. The other held a figuratively and literally sharp-looking javelin.

"Will I have to fight sans a sword and shield, as well?"

"Negatory, miss." The knight threw a thumb over his shoulder with a slanted grin. "There's a sword and shield behind King Illéa's monument with your name on it."

The gemstone level gleam of the knight's silvery weaponry was almost too bright to bear. You've only ever seen that intense of luminescence with one other ore. "Is that tamahagane?" You asked as you floundered over to the statue.

"The sword? Think so." You were unamused at what you saw behind the statue. "Whatever steel's the best."

Well, your sword and shield definitely were not made of any helpful material. One look at the puny duo was enough for you to surmise you'd be better off fighting with sheet metal.

"Can you see well, your Majesty?" You heard the knight call. "Lady [F/n], please excuse the intrusion, but a few select news channels have come to witness our match."

"That's fine." To take or not to take? You’d start making T-charts if there was any paper around.

...No. You took a final, long look at the sight, and shook your head. Not happening.

You won't let them make an unfair fight look fair. If you were to embarrass yourself on national television, you'd do it your way.

What else, then? The tiny tap dancing routine you had incidentally made on your way over was intriguing. Not to mention uncomfortable both physically and emotionally.

Lifting up your foot revealed an semi-pointed toe plate, hardened leather counter and toe case, and steel hobnails. Several iron plates were fixed to the heel.

Upon wriggling your feet, you could tell the erroneously thick sole was iron-studded and decently padded. Really, all the reinforcement was a serendipity. The buckles, anklets, and puttees piled around the alençon lace and cuffs were very obviously ornamental, but overall, it'd work.

You set your foot back down. "Ready when you are."

"Great!" The knight careened around Gregory Iléa's statue, weapon above his head.

As if that would catch you off guard. You sent him in a tailspin with a roundhouse kick to his shield.

Leg still high in the air, you angled your now bent knee, trying to get in another kick. It didn't connect—your opponent had recovered just in time to block it with his shield, looking a bit too happy given the endeavor. No matter.

"Where's your sword?" The knight asked.

"It was too heavy," you explained.

Your hard and heavy kicks pursued until he raised his javelin, which you deflected with a half stomp.

Now you jumped. Quite high. A good 50 inches, actually. Anyhow, you jumped high enough to land on the knight's shield, which was raised awkwardly above his chest, as though he didn't know where to put it. 

A wonderfully available platform to take advantage of. So you landed on the shield, driving the knight to his knees as he held the shield over his head like an umbrella.  
When he finally shook you off, his hand shielded his tired shoulder.

Quietly thanking the derivative gods, you pretended to go for a kick to his shield, but the second he moved to block it, changed your timing and went for a brazilian kick to the handle of his javelin. It connected.

The spear slid across the marble floor, discarded. The knight gaped at the sight, whereas you slid over to it in a baseball-like stop for home base and wedged it out of the ground.

"Hey!" The knight charged at you, shield aimed to most definitely hit you, but you aerial'd out of the trajectory. "Get your own spear!"

Instead of landing on your feet, you hit the floor, windmilled into a sweep of the knight's legs. As he fell, you recovered your footing in a from the ground aerial and delivered another leg blow to his shield as you came down.

The knight hadn't any time to react by the time you had lodged the business and of the javelin into one of the half-crescent concaves of the shield he had covering the side of his face.

A pin-shaped pupil poked out from above the shield, and gazed upon at the crack in his shield the javelin was wedged into.

"Did you mean to hit me with that?" He nodded to the display, voice small.

"No." As though the javelin was a spoon and the shield a cauldron, you started to stir.

The movement was sudden and smooth—the shield turned with the ease of a car's wheel. The knight hadn't even registered his twisting wrist until the shield had shifted around 90 about its origin.

"Argh!" The shield dropped with a thunderous clang. As you pulled it away with the bayonet, you could see the soldier shaking his wrist furiously. "Ow!"

Now you had the sword and shield you wanted. You dislodged the javelin and checked the grooves for any chips.

This is pure tamahagane. Javelin in one hand, you decided not to do anything other than grab the handle of your shield. If the knight tried to pull anything you just did, you didn't want a sprained hand.

"Hey, um." You looked up, and the knight had gotten to his feet. "Before you, uh, could I get your-?"

"Oh." You glanced back to where you had dropped your own sword and shield. You brushed it off. "Oh, yeah, sure. Go ahead."

"Thanks." The knight scampered off to where your weaponry was.

"Don't worry about it."

After that readjustment, the two of you were back to circling each other, this time with switched materials.

This time, you were the one who made the first move. You lunged for a clean swipe at his un-armored stomach, which he parried with a perpendicular strike.

Now you were getting classy.

You slid the blade off your own ran alongside the knight and commenced in a repetitive—but exhilarating—series of blocks and counters in rapid and restless crashes of metal.

Starting to feel the heat, you backhand sprung out some of the knight's heavier slices and caught his sword with the top of your javelin as it moved to cut your head down the middle.

The knight continued to push his blade unto you. "This sword isn't so bad," he said.

"Don't be so sure." You drew your shield, which had been dormant in your other hand and behind your back, and rammed it into the upper half of his sword.

The blade snapped like celery. You and the knight watched it fly across the room and dig itself into the floor like a second rate Caliburn buried in stone.

"Ugh." Still wielding his blunt-ended half sword, the knight's free hand brushed a pocket below his chest plate. "This is getting old."

It stopped near what looked to be a scabbard, and your suspicions were confirmed when he pulled out a dagger. "Well, don't be a sore loser about it."

He charged, and you pressed the staff part of the javelin to your neck.

This killed two birds with one stone; when you dodged a strike directly, the undulations of your shoulders facilitating the javelin's circumnavigation of your neck. The mere rotational movement countered the guard's blows by itself.

Better yet, as you were absentmindedly hula-hooping the bayonet around your neck, your opponent was wearing himself out.

When the soldier reached a satisfactory amount of messiness in his swipes, you rolled the javelin off your shoulders and into your hand and delivered a harsh blow to his back.

While he was staggering, you swung the javelin against the nape of your neck and, using the space between your neck and shoulder blades like a billiard player would the gap between their index and middle fingers, jabbed his nerve cleft.

With the blunt end of it, of course. You weren't trying to slice his jugular. But it was still a sharp strike, and he dropped both of his weapons with a gasp for air.

During his temporary stun, you moved in for a final maneuver. You threw your javelin and shield high into the air. They'd come down in roughly 15 seconds. According to kinematic, that’d be enough time.

You grabbed one of his flailing arms and threw your body up, pirouetting him like a gymnast would a bar. When he raised his other arm to pull you off, you interlocked your other hand with his and used the leverage to swing your lower body up and into a full handstand on him.

But your momentum didn't stop there. Releasing his former hand, you spun like a carousel atop the knight.

Actually, judging by how speedily his centrifuge of a hand twirled his rag doll of a body, you'd change spun to gyrated. While you had quite an active POV, you still sensed your motion was something similar to a sea lion playing with a ball flipped or one of those inflatable sky dancers you see on the road.

You snorted at the thought while your upside down dancing slowed.

Snaking your grip from his hand to his wrist, you let your feet bridge to his back in an almost back-walkover technique. At least, using his body as a platform, you pulled him over your head.

By "pulling him over your head," the unwilling cow was ripped off of the ground and hurled over the moon. The parabola would have been near perfect if he landed appropriately.

Alas, the knight did not. You, the focus of the curve, did. Quite cleanly, at that. When you turned, your opponent was on the floor, coughing. An arms length away was the aforementioned half sword in the stone.

You outstretched an arm behind you to catch your free-falling javelin, whereas you caught your shield mid-air in front of you.

A fitting closure. After a brief baton twirl of your spear, you sheathed it in the strap behind your shield and resumed a sociable posture

Your opponent was still failing to sit up. Frowning, you started your approach. "Do you need any-"

"..-by a goddamn Seven!" You heard him croak.

"Sorry?"

"You think this is over?" The knight sputtered. You stopped and watched him heave himself onto his knees. "I'm not letting some homeless stripper or something take me down!"

"Oh?" You examined the distance from you, to the top half of the sword, to the knight. You unsheathed your spear and dropped it. "Is that so?"

"This match isn't over until one of us is out cold!"

"Okay." You frisbee'd your shield to the sword remnant sticking out, which neatly ricocheted off the blade and hit the knight right beneath his jaw.

The knight hit the floor in unison with what was remaining of the upright sword shattering.

During all this crumpling and crumbling, the crash of cheers from news crew and gathered diplomats hit your ears. You looked to the balcony.

Since when had such a crowd gathered? You felt your stomach flutter.

Oh. Your stomach. The morbidly awaited nausea that hit you nearly knocked you over, though you'd stumble was masked as those on the ground level swarmed to you.

"Lady [F/n]! Lady [F/n]!" Somebody has shoved a microphone into your face. "Where on earth did you learn to fight like that?!"

"Fencing and studying." Don't vomit.

"Really? What's your discipline? Épée?"

"But some of those moves looked like martial arts!"

"What else do you do?"

Don't vomit.

"What about gymnastics?"

"Were you part of a circus at some point?"

Do NOT vomit.

"Excuse me." Someone squeezed your shoulder, and any background clamor died.

"Ahh!" You saw somebody's feet scuttle away. "Your Majesty!"

"Sorry to cut the fight analysis short." Prince Maxon towered over you and the reporters. "But Lady [F/n] promised me a date after her match, so if you will-"

As if Maxon were a magnet of identical polarity, the reporters and journalists were positively repelled.

"Thank you," Maxon said, and lead you out of the sea of civilians.

Maxon's pace was steadfast, that was for sure, but all you could try and fail to focus on was the swirling, crimson carpet. When he leaned over to you, you hadn't noticed he did so until you felt his breath by your ear, nevertheless his proximity.

"Take a right, second door on the left," he whispered. "Lets make haste. Their cameras are following us."

You took a very etiquette-aware right, and then bursted through the second door.

Holy shit.

"This just pretentious," you gurgled while clutching your sides.

You dodged the swimming pool-sized tub and sprinted for the clouded glass stalls two yards away from you. Your stomach emptied itself the minute you grabbed the rim of a toilet seat. Mercifully, your hair stayed out of the way. God bless you and your handiwork, Zafira.

When it felt like you had no more breakfast to regurgitate, you threw your head back with a sigh.

Forcing yourself to stand, you only then noticed another white, toilet-looking hardware not too far from where you sat.

"Are you-"

"Who the h- oh." Maxon must have followed you in. "Your Majesty. I guess it would've been odd if the cameras turned the corner and saw you al-“

It just clicked that you hadn’t heard a word of confirmation from the alleged prince. “That.. that is you, right, your Majesty? ..Maxon?"

Silence.

You were starting to feel your insides twist again. "Oh my god, sir or ma’am, I'm so so-"

"It's me." Maxon sounded very amused.

"Let me rephrase that." And now he was starting to snicker. "Oh my god, you diseased rat, never do that again."

"I'm a what rat?" Maxon's relatively bewitching giggles had evolved into poorly contained laughter. "A what??"

He expected you to know? Sometimes you just say something and even you don’t understand.

"You have the bubonic plague," you announced, and the prince erupted into guffaws. "That's not funny. You completely decimated Europe in the 14th century."

"Hey, hey, hey," Maxon chittered between ragged breaths. "In my defense, I also caused the collapse of serfdom, I think. I haven't read anything of it awhile."

"Via killing 50 million people." Maxon's witchlike giggling persevered, and you shook your head. "Anyways, what is this lusus naturae of a toilet?"

"You mean-" Maxon's was taking a few, short breaths between sniggers, but couldn't get himself to calm down enough to answer in a full and fluid sentence. "You mean the bidet?"

"This is a bidet?" Your tone shift from beration to astonishment must have been delightful to Maxon, because he relapsed into more overzealous hoots.

You loomed over the curiosity, and like any mortal would, started to manhandle it's sink-like components. "How does-? Wait, I think I got it." After twisting several nozzles to no effect, you turned one with a blue head.

A high pressure water jet shot you right between the eyes.

«Fuck!»

You reeled back, spitting water that somehow got in your mouth out of it and scurried out of the bathroom. "UGH!" In your blurred, watery vision, you saw Maxon sliding onto the floor, back against the stall door and clapping like a seal.

On the topic of marine life, no noise was coming from Maxon's very much open mouth besides clicks that weren't unlike a dolphin's. It was as if somebody had muted him; his shaking shoulders, his contracting chest, his head hitting the wall, all parts of his body besides his larynx were racked with laughter.

"Shut up!" You shouted. Maxon doubled over. "Shut UP!"

The damn man looked like he was possessed. One hand groped at his suit while the other, alternating between an open and closed fist, slammed the ground.

"My god, you must be hypoxic." Maxon caught his breath for a hot minute, looked up at you, and used all the wind he'd gathered up in another boisterous holler. "You sounds like a dying whale."

"I c-" the blond gasped as his high pitched whistling died down for the umpteenth time, feeling the floor and the tears he had splattered on them. "I can't brea-"

"My guy, you're going to suffocate at this rate." You crouched down next to his trembling body, but he started crawling to the bathroom door. "Don't go in there!"

"Ugh-" The heir's head lolled, forging a dull thud as it hit the stall wall. "Holy.." he breathed. "I think my lung collapsed."

You sat back. "Well, in my care, you'd be declared dead in absentia."

"I don't doubt that." A fit of spastic hums crept up behind Maxon's words, and you kicked his shin. "Ow. Speaking of, you completely wiped the floor with that guy."

"Oh, that?" The only thing you could remember about that match was how you couldn't get your second kick in. "Thank you. Being honest, though? He blocked a good amount of my attacks. I've let myself go."

"What?" Maxon shot upwards. "Are you kidding? He was at least twice your size and you were flipping him around like it was nothing! It looked like a scene straight out of an action movie! A really, really good action movie!"

Fighting, fighting, fighting. There were other things you preferred. "I'm glad you found it entertaining. Let's hope the rest of Illéa has a reaction in the same vein."

Maxon took his sweet time to respond. "Actually, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"What was all that talk on you being a Seven about?" Maxon stared at his feet, still rubbing his head.

You blinked. Wouldn’t that be obvious to.. anyone living in Illéa? The fact Maxon has to ask was a red flag.

Has he really been living under a rock? You didn't want to be the one to break it to him, if so. "Uh, I think I was just dressed a bit too nouveau riche for his liking."

"I've heard others discussing the matter."

Okay, um. "Well, what do you know about being a Seven, specifically?"

Maxon laughed. "Is there some type of qualification I don't know about?" Near homelessness, maybe?

"Well, while Gregory Illéa might have implemented it as an affirmative action policy after witnessing the United States' socioeconomic polarization, the caste system is still a sociopolitical stratification system. Unsupervised, it can lean towards segregation."

That was not a good word. No sir. You tugged at your hair. "Well, perhaps segregation is a strong word. Prejudice might-"

"-Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere." Maxon stood up and lent you a hand. "Before somebody walks in and accuses you of conspiring against the crown."

You took it. "...Will that be you?"

Maxon shook his head as he pulled you to your feet. "No."

"Why?" You asked as he pulled you out of the bathroom.

"Well, firstly, you're trepidatious towards sharing your true opinion with me, which means it's something good." Is that so? "Secondly, we're on opposite sides of the spectrum.

"I'm done being out of the loop when it comes to the state of my country. Your experience with our system is invaluable to my enlightenment."

Before you could stop yourself, you felt your free hand cover your mouth. "Enlightenment? What is this, the 18th century?"

"The 22nd, actually."

"So I was a bit off. Were you born with this level of receptivity?"

Maxon smiled and, your hands still intertwined, exited the bathroom. "I think it was more how my father didn't care to concrete my tunnel vision. Now, then.."

The prince's steps slowed as soon as a foot was out the door. You successfully suppressed a short laugh as his head swiveled from side to side.

"I would bet you're an avid reader with such an extensive vocabulary?" Maxon's low voice complimented your amplitude.

"Huh?" Maxon anthropomorphizing into an owl was still playing in your head when he threw that question up. "Sublime p implies q, your Majesty. Quod erat demonstrandum, a dictionary is my paean, but literature is my bona fide raison d'être."

Maxon was certainly leading you... somewhere. "Really?"

"Indeed. Per my last mentioning, I'm quite the word aficionado vis-à-vis my companions at home." As Maxon's steps lessened, you examined your surroundings. "As a child, books were pivotal in my armamentarium of entertainment amidst ennui. So 'twas I've come to appreciate the language that comes with."

"As do I. It's unfortunate others don't."

"It truly is!" You exclaimed. "Logodaedaly is a tool of the academic, and those who oppugn it are.. oh." You lost your voice.

That's a lot of sudden paintings coming out of nowhere. You tried not to laugh.

"Oho, so is this the secret room hall?" You were only half joking, gliding to the walls of portraits in oils. "Here's some advice: if you want a trap door to blend in, try making the art in the palace a bit more distributed. Say, does that painting look a little farther off the wall than the rest, or is it just me?"

"Jesus." Maxon stopped at the painting you had pointed out, brushing his fingers beneath the golden frame. You felt your pulse quicken. "You haven't even let me open it."

In a soft groan of unused hatches, the portrait swung open. "You really are too keen for a place filled with secret passageways. After you."

Speechless, you ducked into the entryway and up the narrow stairs.

The room was reminiscent of the advisor's lounge that Gideon had brought you to on your first day at the palace, though it wasn't nearly as spacious.

Stuffy, yes, but overflowing with books.  
A gargantuan atlas depicting the United States of America hung on one wall, and wait a minute.

Wait a minute. You ran over to a large arrangement of books, searching for any signs. "Hah, so this is where the Library of Congress went?"

"Relocation was difficult, but we do have a chunk of its collection." Maxon gestured to a book with the Epic of Gilgamesh etched into its spine. "And then some."

"Then some!" You breathed. "If Hawking's A Brief History of Time is some, then-"

"Is that On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres? And is this Principia Mathematica? Somebody get the Encyclopédie over here!" You scanned the spines. "Who put Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems so far away from The Starry Messenger? They're by the same guy." You looked to your right. "Is that a keyboard?"

"Yes, but how do you-"

You ran over to a desk underneath a large, flatscreen TV, where the object of interest laid. You ran your fingers along the top row of little squares. "It's QWERTY, too! Albeit, stenographic keyboards surpass alphanumeric ones in terms of words per minute, but I appreciate the easy access! Wait, is this a computer?"

You looked up at what was previously thought to be a TV, and an unreasonably loud laugh escaped you. On the bottom border of the screen was a silver apple, the side of it bitten.

"Oh my god, it's Mac. You classists. Even in a future dystopia, the cultivated identity remains."

"[F/n]."

"Maxon!" You whirled towards the timeless melody that was the prince's voice, blindly throwing your arms around the first humanoid thing you saw.

"Oof!" Great guess! The humanoid thing was Maxon. "[F/-"

"I swear, I'm going to live in here from now on! How much do you weigh?!" You saddled your arms right below his waist. "We're about to find out!"

"Wait-" and you lifted him off the ground. "Ack!"

"Thank you! I love it! All of these books!" You sang as you spun the prince around. He was a tad over 180 lbs. "All in the same place, at that!"

"You've seen them before?" Maxon's humorously wobbly voice struggled. "These are the only versions that exist in Illéa! All other paper and electronic copies were destroyed during China's occupancy of North America!"

"Oh, please!" As your arms were starting to tire, you set Maxon down. "They're uncommon, but nothing south of Sunmer is so sterilized that you can't find it if you look hard enough. But this-" you looked around again, taking them all in. "-This is ridiculous!"

"Okay, I'll give you that, but let's calm down for a second." Maxon had both hands in front of him, and for an astounding five seconds, a straight face. "We- god, you are happy, aren't you?"

You weren't sure to what extent your joy was manifesting physically, but it was enough to make Maxon smile. "I was worried I'd regret bringing you here, but if this is going to be your reaction to everything confidential I show you, I might just have to take you on a secret room tour."

"A secret room tour?" Maxon's smile grew.

"Maybe more of a scavenger hunt, if it suits you. In any case, we're here to discuss the caste system, not books."

Oh, no. "Alright, sure, but if William James' The Principles of Psychology is on one of these shelves, I'm pulling it out."

"Fine." Maxon leaned against one of the shelves. "Could you elaborate on how the caste system influences citizens nowadays? I've been told it's currently the basis for educational or job reservations. You know, helpful things. Don't feel the need to lie to me. I need to know what's going on."

You sighed. You'd be walking a thin line here. "Au contraire. That belief is—and I'm not even joking—propaganda."

"So what does it do?"

Like you've previously thought, you didn't want to be the one to break this news to him, but you were being put in an awful spot. "What do you want to start with?"

Maxon seemed indifferent. "Anything."

You don't know how well he'd be able to handle this.

"Let's..." Maybe you could send him into analysis paralysis. Avoid personal experiences. Keep everything desensitized.

As much as you wanted to tell, you couldn't risk him getting upset with you. Sorry, Maxon. You'd need to get somebody braver to risk this. "Well, for starters, have you heard of the Gupta Empire?"

*

"But despite anarcho-communists refuting the transcendentalist's argument on capitalism with Kropotkin's philosophies, the dissolution of individualism wasn't the only thing Darwin observed in numberless animal societies."

"Exactly. While animals are communal, that doesn't mean they don't compete. They just do so in communities rather than as individuals, kind of like.." Maxon drew out a hum. "Oh, I don't know, companies."

"Really, though. Even communism just hasn't been implemented properly despite numerous attempts to enforce its values on workplace democracy and publicly overseen economy, doesn't that-"

"-Say a bit about its practicality?" Maxon finished, eyes shining as his fingers drummed along the round, stone table. "I mean, this is the real world, not a laboratory."

"Precisely!" You chirped. "If a government can't operate with a confounding variable or two, it's too idealistic a system."

"Yes!" The two of you had been competing in whose voice could hit the highest note. That was, until now. "But I do agree that the caste system isn't equatable to any natural hierarchy humanity gravitates towards."

"Same. It only perpetuates terrorism, which in Illéa's case has manifested in the form of rebel groups."

"You'd think that the lower castes would've voiced there grievances diplomatically at first before moving to riots." Maxon, elbows set unevenly on surface and book, massaged his temples. "It really undermines their otherwise noble bright objective."

"It's mainly because they haven't been given the necessary tools to do so." You placed Common Sense to the side. "Gregory Illéa didn't only make Illéa an absolute monarchy because of current ill feelings towards democracy.

"It's easier to keep those who might be unhappy with the government under reigns if you deny them a good education, access to literature, independent printing presses- even freedom of speech. It facilitates cultural hegemony, ergo-"

"-Lower castes only know how to express themselves through violence, and they strengthen distaste towards social revolution and perpetuate inter-caste tribalism through acts of violence." You nodded, and Maxon sighed. "I think my father's just scared socially left policies will lend itself to fiscally left policies. He wants to maintain the absolutism of the monarchy."

"Fine with me. There's a reason no democracies stand today." You shrugged.

"They're just too slippery a slope, if you ask me." Maxon put down the Federalist Papers.

"I agree with you." You held a copy of the Constitution by its corner to Maxon, and he traded with you. "Way too.. universalist. You know what we should bring back, though?"

"What?"

"The Tang Empire's imperial examinations." Maxon snorted and turned away. "Since we're already off on a tangent, they were cool and, according to most political analysts, effective."

"I was thinking more along the lines of the Magna Carta and maybe a quarter of English Common Law," Maxon ran a hand through his hair. "I can't believe father was feeding a societal pyramid scheme underneath my nose."

You know what?

You feel like he was getting this.

You haven't put all of your opinions on your sleeve yet, but it seemed like, despite your best efforts to dilute everything, Maxon could see through most of the flowery vocabulary and far-off theorizing. And it didn't bother him. He was patient and open-minded and respectful, and while this is typically the basis of decency you'd expect people t-

He stretched, and you shuddered at the sickening sound of crackling bone.

"Well, firstly, ew," your tone faltered into disgust yet laughter as you ran your hands over your joints. "I heard.. all of that."

Maxon grinned and began to wind up his arm. "I haven't even cracked my neck or back yet."

"Do not." Maxon began to bend over the back of his chair, and you slapped your hands over your ears. "Ugh! Don't! Heathen!"

Maxon, after craning his neck so that his eyes lifted just above his torso like a setting sun, sat back up. He was smiling still, and you could hear his muffled complaint. "It's no fun when you aren't listening."

You removed your hands. "As I was saying-"

In a flash of beige, Maxon had snapped his back in two over the chair.

The sound was enough to made you stand up, unaware of what to do but knowing you had to take a walk. "Argh!" You decided to walk around your chair as Maxon laughed. "Is it sciatica? Is it sciatica you suffer from?"

"I suffer from lack of your reactions!" Maxon's several pounds to the table accentuated his exclamation. "As well as your conversations in general. Continue?"

You let his mockery slide. For now. "Secondly, on top of the aforementioned, I dare you to integrate the Mayflower Compact or English Bill of Rights into that list of yours. You'd practically have a republic. Thirdly.." you rolled your eyes. "Actually? Never mind. I was going to compliment you, but you clearly are undeserving of such praise."

"Whaaat?" Maxon wriggled in his seat. "No! Compliment me! Please? If you don't, I'll have to take you on a date or something along those publicly detrimental lines."

"Hey, now," you said with a jokingly cautious grin, a dark, brooding aura radiating from Maxon in waves. "Let's not get too off the rails. Thirdly, thank you, your Majesty. This has been quite a serendipitous experience."

By the looks of it, this is not what Maxon was expecting. His devilish smile wavered. "Haha, excuse me, what?"

"You've taken, well-" the piles of books on the table spoke for themselves. "-all of this with an amazing grace.

"To suddenly be thrown a maelstrom of social issues and myriad of critiques on your family name, you've been handling it with kindness beyond compare."

Maxon was radio silent, and you tried not to fall into panic.

"..Your moral compass is admirable, is all. Regardless of growing up in a manner where you've done nothing but benefit from Illéa's current setup nor ever heard of its downsides, you've been empathetic and attentive and, uh..."

Silence still. Come on, man, say something. You tried not to fidget with the yellowed, curling pages of the book you had in your hand.

"It- it says a lot about your character. In a good way. You're gregariously pragmatic, though in no way dolorous with.. oh, look at me." You ground your teeth together. "I've become a thesaurus. Lovely."

"Can I ask you something?" Maxon cut through your rambling.

Given that you hadn't allowed your lungs a breath of air for the past minute, you were glad for the intervention. "Shoot."

"Why did you tell me you didn't want my hand the night we met?" You couldn't pin an emotion in Maxon's tone or, when you looked up, face. "Weren't you worried I'd send you home?"

~

[A/N]: For the record, I'm not trying to be political. I've assigned the reader views that is a product of what's appropriate for the story, Kiera Cass' ending where Illéa becomes a representative democracy, and the culture she's been immersed in as a low caste girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I’m not trying to be political. I’ve assigned the reader views that is a product of what’s appropriate for the story, Kiera Cass’ ending where Illéa becomes a representative democracy, and the culture she’s been immersed in as a (previous) Seven.


	5. Somewhat Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader involves herself in things she probably shouldn’t involve herself in, but is competent at nevertheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I’m no expert in governmental/martial stuff, so feel free to tell me if I’ve got anything wrong in the chapters concerning them.

That's a question, isn't it? "Sincerely? I'm.. not sure. I didn't plan to."

The anguished look on Maxon's face after he had sent his courtiers out of the lounge room yesterday night was still burned in your memory.

"I was worried you'd send me home the first time I saw you. When I woke up the next morning I was worried you'd send me home, but at the moment..

"When I first saw you, after that fight with your advisors, it just kind of came out. I'm not sure why. Maybe I was out of it because of gambling, or thought you deserved to know, I don't know. But I was uncomfortably comfortable, if that makes any sense."

You resisted the urge to slap yourself. "I still do. That's probably the reason I'm still gabbling guff."

"It's fine." Maxon's voice was quieter. "You didn't have a word limit. I was just wondering."

"Why do you ask?" You marveled lightly. "Am I acting a bit too relaxed?"

A brisk huff escaped Maxon's lips, and he leaned back on his chair. "If I'm.. well, I guess I empathize with you."

Twitching fingers twirled the ends of his hair, starting a painstakingly slow devolution of his otherwise manageable locks.

"When I woke up this morning, the first thing that hit me was all the stupid stuff I said to you last night. And I regretted it. But right before breakfast, when I got to talk to you again, I forgot all about it.

"Even right now, while I'm perfectly aware that what I'm saying shouldn't be said to someone I've known for less than a day, I myself am still blabbering. I don't know why, either. But I think that's the reason I brought you here."

Maxon paused, and gave you a smile. "Er, more like the reason I didn't not bring you here, actually. I brought you here because I thought you'd like it."

"I do like it," you replied. His grin grew.

"If we both feel the same, I don't want us to act like strangers to one another. We can just... continue as we are now. Kids who befriended one another under weird circumstances."

The way he phrased that seemed all too inviting. "How could I refuse when you put it that way?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't," Maxon said.

"But I do think we brushed over basic information. For instance." You pointed to the prince. "What's your favorite color?"

"What?" Maxon laughed. "Uh, I don't know. Lilac, probably? Why, do you have one on hand?"

"Pft! Easy!" You scoffed. "It changes, of course, but right now I'm thinking pink. Pure and unprocessed."

"Just pink?" Maxon pushed. "No particular hue? I didn't think you'd for a girly girl."

"While there's nothing wrong with being a "girly girl," I like it mainly because it doesn't exist on the EM spectrum." You rose. "But I do like fuchsia. Actually, do you have Maxwell's A Dynamical Theory of the Electromagnetic Field in here?"

"I haven't a clue. Shall we check?" Maxon rose with you. "In the mean time, do you have any ice breaker questions for me?"

"What's your favorite food?" You slid Sakai's Settlers out of the restricted section.

Maxon's answers were less decisive than yours. "Do you mean all food in general, or just a dinner thing?"

"Favorite actual food, favorite dessert."

"Oh, wow." Maxon rubbed his neck. "Uh, food would probably be duck confît. I think dessert would have to be blueberry cheesecake, but I really, really like crème brûlée."

"Duck confît?" How ethically made is that, again? "Well, I guess it could've been worse."

"Really? What was the worst thing you had in mind?"

"Escargot or something."

"You remember when I called you poultry pal dangerously close to a camera?" A painful grin bloomed on your face at the memory. "Never, ever tell me you thought I liked escargot again. Ugh-"

You stifled you're snickers as Maxon began to dry heave. "Ugh- snail? Really? What do you take me for? Bleugh. Moving on. What's a.. what's a lame party trick you can do?"

"Oh, I'm not too fun at parties." These things just couldn't be sorted alphabetically, could they? "Dunno. Maybe baton twirling? Kind of?"

Maxon threw his head back. "Ha! If it's anything like what you did with that javelin, it's far above baton twirling."

"I'll make sure to practice near you. Oh, sweet, the Declaration of Independence." You undid the scroll's crimson bow. "And it's banned. Go figure. Anyway, what are some of your hobbies?"

"I like photography, and I'm quite skilled with a bow and arrow, if I do say so myself."

"You're an archer?" You whirled around. "And a photographer? That's awesome!"

"Well, you're a fencer!" Maxon challenged. "If I remember Gideon's introduction correctly, you're awesome at everything!"

You laughed. "I'm not a fencer! I just know my way around a sword! Gideon was exaggerating."

"Really?" Maxon droned. "And you just know your way around mastery in martial arts?"

"You'd be surprised by how many street fighters have some kind of formal training, but I'm serious! The only stuff I'd consider myself above amateur at is art and dance. Everything else was my sister's forte."

"Ugh! Why are you so modest?" Maxon exclaimed. "It's annoying! Is your sister this stupidly humble, as well?"

"Oh, god, no." By the time you had turned around, Maxon had placed the Articles of Confederation—also bearing a scarlet stripe—on the table. A crease had begun to form on his forehead.

"Something wrong?" Maxon shook his head and opted to rub his wrist, fingering his quadruplet of cuff links.

"I just.. don't know how I'm going to do this my father's supervision," he admitted as he smoothed his sleeve down. "As I'm sure you've surmised with how out of the loop I am, he's not the negotiable nor transparent type."

"It doesn't have to be instantaneous." You tapped the table until you had Maxon's attention. "It's inevitable that you're going to be a better king than him, just give yourself some time." Maxon smiled.

"Do you really think that's inevitable?"

"Duh." You placed a hand to your chest. "And because I'm going to be your chief minister, of course. I'll make sure you don't do anything that'd start a revitalized Reign of Terror."

"Aha, I'll need the help." Maxon's eyes slid back to his wrist, though they seemed to fix into a flash of platinum. His face lost color. "You have got to be kidding me."

"What is it?"

"It's nearly time for dinner." He alternated between looking at what you could only think to be a watch, looking away, and looking back. "How on earth? I feel like I've barely touched my books."

"Same here." You began to gather the books and papers. "Time flies when you're discussing political philosophy."

"Speaking of which," Maxon said. "Do you have any recommendations for me? I find the works you've pulled interesting thus far, and would be open to suggestions."

"Recommendations" was all the confirmation you needed. "Blackshirts and Reds by Michael Parenti; Principles of Communism by Friedrich Engels; State and Revolution and Imperialism by Lenin; and The Communist Manifesto, Das Kapital, Wage Labor and Capital, and Critique of the Gotha Program by Karl Marx."

"Oh," Maxon said. "Uh, they sounds very..." He looked to the banned book section. "Radical."

"You say that as if I agree with them." Maxon's gaze fell off you, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "They're a good introduction to far-left politics is all. Good for debating. Plus, I think you'll find them funny. I did."

"Apologies for the accusation," Maxon muttered. "Some of your political stances are still a bit enigmatic to me."

Why were you even worried in the first place that he'd freak out, again? And now you have to wait until you catch him in the next week to discuss actual caste matters. Great going, anxiety.

"Don't fret over it." You waved him off and made your way towards the portrait-door. You'd tell him next time. "After another book or two, you'll probably be dissecting my ideologies like a frog."

"Thanks for that imagery." Maxon reached over your shoulder to creak the painting open. After seeing a clear coast, the two of you slid out.

"Thank you for showing me that place." You turned around, giving the prince an over-exaggerated curtsy. "And I'm sorry to inform you that I'll likely be visiting it more times than you'd prefer."

"That's fine with me." Maxon combed back his minutely disheveled hair with a smirk. "If I'm ever bored, then I'll know where to find you."

"I could put together a schedule if you're that desperate."

"Maybe not now." Maxon looked to the other side of the winding passageways. "As I'm not sure it'd be appropriate for you to go to dinner in that."

"Ah." You looked down at your suit, still brimming with vibrancy, though slightly scuffed from you rolling around in them. "Fair point. But isn't the Selected being served dinner in their rooms tonight?"

Maxon's brow piqued. "Only if you, my future minister president, are uninterested in meeting the committee presidents."

The presidents.

"Oh."

After ensuring nobody besides Maxon was in your vicinity, ran off.

"Oh, there you are." Anima said as you broke down your door. "We have your meal here. Where were you?"

"I was with the prince." You slid off your coat. "And invited to the dinner that's happening in the next hour."

"You were what?" Marca piped up. "Like, the governmental dinner? The last one until Prince Maxon proposes? What on earth did you do with him, and is it connected to the suitcase on your bed?"

"The what?" Peering over your bed, you did see a maroon, rectangular box of sorts. Didn't really look like a suitcase, though. You couldn't blame Marca if she was expecting the worst.

Oh. You could smell the uncirculated money from where you stood. You smiled and shook your head.

"Nope. Sorry to burst everyone's bubble, but I'm not being sent home yet."

A bundle of fabric was thrown at your face, but Zafira's voice rang with crystalline clarity nevertheless. "Guess you'll have to put this on, then."

"Wait a minute," Marca began as you started to free yourself from your jewelry and undershirt. "Then how were you invited?"

"Not sure. Probably entertainment purposes," you joked as Zafira shimmied the dress up your midriff.

"Please don't keep the pants on underneath," Zafira said. "This is a white tie event."

"Fine." You reached under the floor-length gown and began to unbutton your trousers. "But for the record, I'm not wearing any ties."

Zafira tried not to chew you out on your substantial lack of both humor and dress knowledge as she fanned out your gown. "There."

"Could I have the shoes, please?" They were just out of your feeble reach from where you were sitting on the bed. Anima, face lightly flushed, laid them beside you with a soft apology.

"Well, I like it," Zafira said as you tugged your gloves up your arm. "It's fierce. Especially with her current updo. If Maxon liked her in her battle outfit or whatever, he'll like this."

You looked down to find yourself draped in rose and gold again. Rose gold, if you will. "Well, it's the arguable dressy version of it."

When arriving at the dining hall, you were greeted a pack of courtiers and other government officials chatting amongst themselves.

King Clarkson and Queen Amberly were seated at the far end, Maxon at his father's side.

"Oh." King Clarkson sounded unimpressed. "Maxon, I told you we've no room for more of the Selected, no matter their political ties." Maxon was paling as quickly as his eyes darted between you and someone else seated.

"Apologies, your Highness." You curtsied. "I was asked to come as a delegate for P-"

"Oh!" A broad-shouldered official you didn't recognize rose from his seat. "Are you the young lady who sparred with one of the guards this morning?"

"I am." The salt and peppered man smiled.

"I'm Zeke Varga, minister president. Find a seat, will you? I'd like to hear of your training, as well as your thoughts on a more targeted draft in light of our conflict in New Asia."

"You can sit by me." A frail voice whispered. Your eyes spotted a petite-looking girl in a matronly vermillion gown. You recognized her from the interviews before the preliminary elimination: Elise Whisks.

It seemed as though she repelled most adults, as there were plenty an empty chair around her. You nodded. "Thank you."

Okay. Alright. Okay. Don't panic. Maxon gave you an opportunity. Don't screw it up. Don't be a wallflower, but don't say something too out of line. Don't obfuscate, but don't be forthright.

Most importantly, don't let the topic of castes arise. "Now, on the topic of either increasing our pool of draftees or shifting to a more selective method of identifying soldiers rather than men, which would you suggest?"

You pretended to mull the question over. "I think a quality over quantity approach would be best so as to avoid civil unrest, but we would need to give those eligible more incentive to join rather than, for lack of more delicate terminology, burn their draft cards."

A chorus of mixed chatter washed over the table. You weren't going to appease everyone here, but you're sure you could handle the majority. "However, might I propose a more technical approach?"

*

Breakfast the next morning was better. Only because you refused to let your hunger get the best of you.

Plus, you had to remember all of those advisors' and viceroys' and presidents' names. Guildenstern, Yamada, Dykstra, Gù..

Sigh. You don't like to subscribe to stereotypes, but you really could tell if somebody was a Three or above by how many degrees of separation there was between their name and a profession. Potter? Badger? Seven to Five range. Bommineni? Molina-Jadav? Oh, so you're a clergyman.

Besides light chatter with Elise, you spent most of the morning cradling your twisting gut and praying discipline would reward you. Sadly, you didn't feel any satisfaction when you left the room.

As Maxon and Gideon were busying themselves with finding a future wife and relevant political matters, respectively, you were free to explore. Besides etiquette classes at noon.

But it wasn't noon yet, and it was time to, little by little, integrate yourself into the castle.

As you waited to accidentally bump into the grand duke after his morning stroll in the autumn garden, the guards by the entrance had some stories to tell.

"I just feel bad that I react to them so... well, badly." Mathouchanh rubbed the back of his neck. "They're human, too, but when she- I don't know. My first thought was how I'd get whipped for being there. I kinda wanted to lay her down and run when the prince showed up."

Mertin Mathouchanh. Natural Four with eyes that sparkled like citrine, enviously luscious hair, and olive skin.

He volunteered for an excavation to pay for his mother's hospital bill after she suffered a stroke. Turned out his best self came out in battle.

"You're not alone," Hunter replied. "I avoid them. God knows if one drops dead and we're nearby we'll be executed the next morning."

Fry Hunter. Natural Seven with hair so reminiscent of platinum it challenged the complete lack of melanin in yours. Added onto his icy eyes and porcelain skin, if he bought himself a decent tailcoat, he could walk amongst the castle's Twos with ease.

Hunter only considered a job as a knight with a steady source of food in mind. With no intention to end up on castle grounds, he simply sought out promotion after promotion until he ended up at the palace.

"It'll be me." You unfolded your crossed arms to raise a lackadaisical hand. "And it'll be on purpose."

Hunter scowled, tilting his bayonet towards you with a crooked smirk. "Oh, no, I'd mean to injure you."

"I was actually wondering, miss," Mathouchanh marveled. "Thamesh and Yusuf were guarding the advisor's congregation room yesterday and said the king's royal translator waltzed you in there. What's that about?"

Thamesh and Yusuf Abdelmagid were natural Fours turned Fives after their mother eloped with someone of a lower caste.

Yusuf was adopted—tall and tan with jet black hair, honey brown eyes, and a knack for doing anything but gaining muscle. Thamesh was more on the fitter side.

Save for Thamesh's darker skin, well kept hair, and a barely noticeable height difference, the two actually looked somewhat similar. The same smile and laugh and faraway look, the same stance and way of moving. Most people they've met assumed they were cousins.

"Gideon Friedman?" August nodded, brow raised. "Oh, yeah. My apocryphal application lead to the crown having him test my credibility. Apparently trying to gas yourself up is treason."

"Apocryphal?" Fry echoed, flabbergasted. "Add that to the list of words we'll have to ask the prince for the definition of."

"Just ask me?"

Hunter's lips twisted into a ghost of a smile, and he twisted his star-shaped piercing in his ear. "You didn't actually try to do that, did you?"

"God, no," you said. "I was being honest. So we didn't really have anything to reprimand me on, so we exchanged, say, surface-level friendship information."

"What on earth is that?"

"Dude, you know," Mathouchanh nudged the guard. "Like, friendship levels. It's a burrowed system."

"Like castes?"

"Lady [F/n]." You jolted. "Why is it you prefer to chitchat with the guards than write to family?"

Almost forgetting to turn around, you bowed. "Apologies, ma'am, but I've no family to write to."

You didn't look up, so given her silence, you couldn't see her reaction to your remark. You could, however, feel her eyes drag over you and the guard's stiff attentions.

She looked down and clicked her tongue. "Well, that's no good," she said, and walked off.

You listened in disdain until the faint click of her heels finally faded. Only when you knew you were safe from scrutiny did you let out a sigh.

""Well, that's no good?"" Hunter scowled. "Who responds to someone telling them they don't have a family like that?"

"We've discovered one." You massaged your temples. "Is she always this uptight, or is she just high strung because of the Selection?"

Mathouchanh shrugged. "Sorry, but that's pretty much her personality. I guess she could be a little frazzled after the king's session with the prince last night."

"Session?" You repeated. Mathouchanh's face reddened.

"That came out wrong," he admitted. "I don't want to spread rumors or-" quietly, he pressed a hand to the side of his face and sighed. "That also came out wrong. Can I restart?"

Hunter rolled his eyes, looking from you to Mathouchanh. "If you won't say it, I will.

"We were posted outside the dining hall last night. After everyone had left, King Clarkson held Prince Maxon in the room hostage for about half an hour. Screaming about how there's no protocol for a Selected attending government dinners."

At this point Mathouchanh's apparent urge to clarify overrode his desire to keep quiet. He caved. "Silvia needed to speak with King Clarkson afterwards, so she waited the whole thing out in front of the doors. But Hunter!"

Well, you won't have to worry about Maxon asking you to pop in at any last-minute briefings anymore.

"Coordinating anything with those two hasn't been great since." Hunter shrugged. "The entire royal family's on different schedules."

"Fry!"

"Fry!" The blond parroted, then went flat. "Seriously, what's the problem? We aren't gossiping if we're telling the truth.

"You learn to deal with it, though. Silvia, I mean." Hunter and Mathouchanh then exchanged a look, and you got a strong feeling you were out of the loop on something. "So long as you tell her the palace is secure at the end of every conversation she leaves you alone."

"The palace is secure?" You recalled all of the literal terrorist attacks that have hit the castle in the past five months in a flash. You laughed.

Realizing this, though, you slapped your hand over your mouth. "I-"

It was only then you realized the Hunter and Mathouchanh were sniggering.

"It's fine," Mathouchanh reassured you. "It's an inside joke."

"Oh, thank god," you sighed, and then allowed yourself to laugh briskly with the guards.

The giggling died down, but upon everyone silently recalling of all the attacks again, re-erupted in increased intensity. And, with how easily the three of you rode off one another, kept intensifying.

You were clutching your sides. "How do you say that? With a straight face??"

"It takes practice." Mathouchanh cleared his throat until his surging guffaws had finally diminished. "Sometimes we slip up."

"Try it on me," you challenged.

"I don't think I'd-"

"I got it, I got it." Hunter shook himself out, and turned to you. His face had shifted to insouciance, if anything offended that you had questioned the safety of his dear workplace.

"Don't you know that the palace is s-" Hunter hunched over with and made a noise that sounded like a dying car. "I'm sorry- I'm so sorry, I can't say it."

"Wait, no, I got it." Mathouchanh turned away, cleared his throat, and whirled back around with a deadpan expression and flat voice. "Miss, our c-" he broke. "You were already smiling!"

"Okay, okay, try again." You patted your cheeks and shook your head. "I am calm."

As if to restart a scene in a play, Mathouchanh shook his head and gave you another theatrical look of confusion. "Lady [F/n]."

"What?" You both descended into maniacal laughter.

"You were looking at me weirdly!"

"No I wasn't!"

"Hunter, you saw that, right?"

But the blond didn't respond. When you turned to him, you recognized why.

"Captain Markson!" Hunter saluted to something over your shoulder. "Good morning, sir!"

"At ease, Hunter." The cool voice chuckled. "We're palace guards, not minutemen."

You turned around and, unsure of how to address the captain, made a light curtsy and equally light tone. "Apologies, Captain. I've been distracting them."

"God knows they need it." Markson held his arms akimbo. "You wouldn't know it by day, but these two are pessimists in their own, original ways."

"Sir!" Mathouchanh and Hunter blustered.

"I think I can guess." You peered over at the lanky and not-so-lanky pair. "Mathouchanh is the drama queen, Hunter the cynic."

"Right on," Markson replied, much to his men's chagrin. "Sorry to intrude, but there's some matters of security I need to discuss with these lads, so if it's alright..?"

"Oh!" You backed away. There didn't seem to be any diplomatic mass approaching the garden doors in the distance. "Of course. I'll leave you all to it, then."

Markson's smile was warm. "Thank you."

And so you left. Going nowhere in particular, of course. You hadn't a grasp of everybody schedules yet, so other than that one meeting you wanted to catch, you were lost in terms of where to find noteworthy politicians.

Guards were nice. You did have some knowledge on the knights' rotations. As neared a corner, you could hear Archer and Lee chittering near the other side of the wall.

You hesitated at the end of the corridor, and went the other way. Nice, but not the most effective way to earn a name for yourself.

Oh. You stopped.

You need to talk with the other Selected. Duh. They're probably being interviews constantly. Or was that only starting after the first Report?

Whatever. Where's the Women's Room? The second or third floor? You kept your head on a swivel as you travelled the castle grounds. If you ended up getting lost for an hour or two, at least you'd have a very nice mental map of the ordeal.

...What did Markson want to talk to Mathouchanh and Hunter about? Rebel problems? He said it was a security issue.

What, like you don't know what rebels are? Hell, you know the names of some rebels. Was the information that sensitive?

Wait, no. Don't get off track. Remember: socialization. Plus, you might be able to help Maxon thin the crowds with a little bit of personality profiling.

When you got to what you thought to be the Women's Room—as it was a gigantic, heart like structure in the middle of the Selected's living quarters, you instantaneously regretted opening the doors.

It was utter bedlam.

You knew the girls currently inhabiting the pigsty from their screen time at the beginning of the Selection process.

Celeste Newcome was switching through the television like it was her 9-5 job, Bariel Pratt nestled next to her, flipping through a magazine. The former of the pair seemed to be saying something to Anna Farmer and Emmica Brass, as Anna was behind the couch alongside Emmica, who clung to her arm.

Anna was saying something, yelling something, but the TV drowned it out. Celeste laughed.

Amy Everheart, Fiona Castley, and Tallulah Bell has made their own little clique around the board game table, as well. Marlee Tames and Jenna Banks were swarming the outer ring. Given their facial expressions and incomprehensible but audible cadence, you assumed their conversational topics weren't innocent, either.

Trying to merge into the previous group were Camille Astor and Mikaela Convey. At the very least, trying to mimic their air of grace. The two groups would shamelessly talk over one another whenever given the chance, typically about one another. Ergo, both communities had escalated to near shouting.

Olivia Witts was prancing about the room, gushing about something to Janelle Stanton as she trailed behind her. They'd encircle Tiny Lee and Tuesday Keeper every one in awhile, who had their own little talk going on that would very from whispers to whining.

Kriss Ambers And Natalie Luca were tucked away in a neat, little corner, mingling minutely. They'd hand one another parts of their dress, which the other would ogle at as they felt the fabric. Elise Whisks was there, too, but excluded. She just listened, hands folded across her chest and feet pointed towards the exit.

Elayna Stoles and Leah Sacks were huddled together in the center of the room, and if you were deaf, you'd assume they were whispering amongst themselves. But you could very clearly hear them complain about their families.

Samantha Lowell And Zoe Peddler had no clan, which they handled different ways. Samantha sat alone near a snack table, head on the table and not saying a word; whereas Zoe drifted from group to group, but never stuck.

The only voice that resonated with you was Gavril Fadaye's iconic "GOOD MORNING, ILLÉA!" from the Report.

This did not include Olivia shouting something in your general vicinity before running you over.

"Oh!" Janelle came to a screeching halt on her stilettos, which was honestly impressive. "Aren't you the girl that went on a date yesterday?"

"The what?" You asked. The only thing you remembered was your duel and vomiting session.

It was at this time that everybody in the Women's Room fell silent.

"After your.. your sword fight," Elise edged. "Maxon said the two of you were going on a date?"

"Oh." Time to lie! Lying time! Your favorite.

But really. You're trying to forge friendships here, and for that, you need to make yourself look as unthreatening as possible.

"That? It wasn't much of a date, he just didn't want too much media exposure on any of us until the Report next week. You know, to start us all off on equal footing with the people."

"Oh, good," Tuesday said. "Then what did you guys do?"

"He just walked me halfway to my room, told me to change into a dress, and left."

The temperature in the room returned to normal. "So America's really the first one to go on a date date?" Kriss bit her lip.

America? "Yeah." America.. who?

Wait a minute. "Did your stylist bleach your hair?" Celeste asked. "It looks damaged."

It bothered you that you couldn't remember her. You had watched everything related to the Selection on television, but couldn't recall any notable lyric being made by a girl named America. "No. It turned white when I hit 16."

"Oh." Was she camera shy? You remembered, like, 27 other girls' names. Castes and provinces, too, if you thought hard enough. This is frustrating. "That's weird."

Saving you from needing to respond, Anna Farmer's shriek sliced through the silence like a searing knife through butter. "Don't ignore me!"

"Anne, calm down." Emmica squeezed the girl's arm, but Celeste only rolled her eyes and went back to channel surfing.

"What's your cup size?" Bariel crawled over Celeste's lap, whom only looked a little bit unsettled by the action.

"Sorry?"

"I mean, we're all girls here." She gestured to the room and then to her chest. "I just wanted to know if you're as big as me. I'm a 26DD."

26? What the-? Does she even have a rib cage? "Um."

"26DD?" Amy exclaimed. "You're kidding me. You're a 30C at most."

"Why would she be lying?" Tuesday asked.

"Listen." Celeste set the remote down, placing her hands in front of her. "It's all relative to your body type. There's not any good rule of thumb to it, but if you feel like you need to dress around or minimize your chest, chances are you're busty."

"But there's a good nine different breast shapes someone can have," Kriss mentioned. "Even smaller sizes like Bs and Cs look big with certain tissue distribution. Or can be enhanced."

"Mind filling us in on how to enhance them?" Another girl called. "I'm asking for a friend."

Now random voices were calling out like unaccounted for children in middle school.

"Speaking of girl anatomy, though, won't we be getting physical examinations here? Shouldn't a female doctor do it?"

"Don't be dumb. Dr. Ashlar is a world-renowned physician with a wife and four daughters prettier than all of us put together. He's not going to get all creepy with us."

"But wasn't his mentor a literal pervert? He was stripped of his caste for sexually harassing some of the girls during King Clarkson's Selection."

"What?"

"Oh, I heard about that from my mom. Dr. Mission, right? It was so weird. He had three older sisters growing up! Can you imagine that?"

Chaos ensued. So maybe there were too many cooks in the kitchen at the moment to form any strong bonds.

You quietly slipped out of the arena and absconded to your bedroom. Might as well get acquainted with it.

It was a quaint thing, save for the suspiciously luscious bed. Barely any of your special interests were integrated besides gold-gilded instruments by your bedside.

But the walls were eerily bone white and bare. Not that the palace was every a patron of the arts, but you'd at least expect a nice, gold base or something.

That's when you noticed the paint cans against the wall.


	6. Planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader deals with the first of the Selection’s various mishaps.

You heard somebody gasp over the Beethoven's violin concerto. "What the hell is that lunatic doing?"

"Huh?" You looked down and froze, your hands shooting down to your exposed stomach. "What? Zafira? Marca? Hi? Uh, hey? Sorry-"

"Oh my god!" Marca hissed and turned away, slamming the door behind her shut. "What the hell is that lunatic wearing?"

"Yeah, sorry, I-" You kicked out your leg and pointed to your drawers, making sure to cover your stomach. "I didn't want to get anything dirty, so I just grabbed-"

"Argh!" Zafira shrieked ad she covered her eyes. "What the hell is th-"

"Like I was-"

"There's towels all over the floor!" Marca, steam fuming from her ears, crouched onto the floor and began tossing them over her shoulder.

"Don't! They're shielding the fabri-"

Zafira stomped over to you. While your angle on her was.. extreme, she didn't look any less frightening. The fish eyes actually enhanced her intimidation. "How did you get up there?!"

"Okay, well, listen." You patted the bed frame, careful not to disturb any of the curtains. "It's an 108x108" canopy bed, do you expect me not to climb it?"

"Get down!" Zafira snapped.

"I'm working!" You gestured to the rosy gamboge hue on your brush and palette. "I get that it's a-"

"Now!"

"Zafira, according to your logic, y-"

"Now!"

"Fine!"

"Ugh!" Marca pushed all of your precious towels against her hip. "You're exhausting! At least put on a chemise!"

"I don't know if you know this, but I was working with oil paints just now." You jumped down, Zafira squealing as you hit the floor in something more like bang than a thud. "The stains would've never gotten out."

Zafira's face twisted as you grabbed a pillow to cover your bust. "It's not like I was waiting for you guys to walk in, anyways. I would've been done before you guys prepped me for dinner."

"Well, now you can change into something to be seen around the palace with." Zafira started to shove you towards your wardrobe. "Because you're kicked out! Go! Oh, Anima." Total voice change. "You can come inside now."

"Wha-?"

Your door cracked open, and a petite blonde slipped inside. "You guys just shut the door on me!"

"Sorry," Marca said. "It was instinct."

"Haha," you taunted before being shoved into your walk-in closet. "Your fight or flight kicked in."

"Buzz off."

"What's going on?"

"We got the most insane out of the Selected, that's what," Zafira grumbled.

After you were put in something more "suitable" for the public, you really were kicked out. If you could be grounded outside of your room, you had been.

..Well, now what?

There wasn't many options.

You tried the Women's Room again, and no offense to the rest of the Selected, but you were pretty much done with the social interaction that came with failed attempts to converse with people. Only Elise batted an eye at you before you left, your inner introvert sobbing.

You could.. you could go to..

No. You shouldn't.

Ok, but shouldn't you?

You weighed the pros and cons as you snuck behind the painting. No, you totally should.

God, this place really was the remnants of the Library of Congress. Each shelf was overflowing with pamphlets and newspapers and ancient texts even you haven't seen before.

Actually, how about you learn some new languages? The more, the merrier!

What were those things on the center table?

Your perusing fell cold in front of the surface of petrified wood. Fresh and original papers were strewn about from edge to edge. Military reports.

Huh. You picked them up. They covered everything from the civil disobedience after King Clarkson's Selection to the latest update on a rebel advance north.

You looked around, now conscious of your vulnerability. Maybe you shouldn't be here. Not out in the open, at the least. You gathered the stack of papers, still curious of their contents, and skunk into the farthest aisles of the library.

Leaning against a shelf and flipping through the pages, you couldn't help but note at the simplicity of the rebel's moves.

How come nobody has tried to organize these things? It didn't seem like anything interpretive or strategic was bunched in the papers. Well, damn, no wonder the crown is so reactive. They don't know what to do.

You could just, you don't know, make something to predict their likeliest next move and how to optimize the given circumstances. That would definitely help get the crown get its act together, wouldn't it? You could totally do that.

Then you could give your findings to, say.. Varga. But you'd have to be careful about it—make sure you were recognized within the higher-ups. You couldn't have people taking your work and ignoring you.

You could skip dinner, too. Nobody of cruciality really shows, and there's barely enough seats for those who do. You didn't need your energy wasted on digestion. These reports were too...

Divided.

It seemed approximately 70% of the papers were either meek activity updates ranging from Whites to Likely, which provided a stark contrast to the 20% scorched earth advancements being made up southernmost Panama to Sonage.

~10% were accounts in Angeles. Out of those, less than a quarter bore serious casualties, whereas the rest were pretty docile for rebel attacks that managed to get on castle grounds.

Since when has the mortality rates of the rebels been so stratified? And so repetitive, too? It takes awhile to get from the ends of Panama to central Angeles, and for the longest time the largely accepted technique of the rebels were planned, heavy hitting ambushes once or twice a year. This looks messy.

And now they're hanging around Likely? They'd never keep their numbers so concentrated or risk working their way around Angeles for a different angle of attack.

Was this a different rebel group entirely?

No. That's stupid.

Is it, though? You'd have to ask Maxon if Illéa was descending into warlord madness beneath your nose. Your eyes slid to the computer. What was on that thing, anyways?

You slunk over to the Mac and it's swivel chair, sitting down. The seat sung an ancient squeak, and when you experimentally tapped one of the keys, the computer whirred to life.

From what you could see, there were barely any browsers. However, immediately after the screen flickered to life, it was bombarded with different tabs of military reports ranging from years back to days ago.

Time seemed to freeze. Oh, you could work with this. Compiling-

"Where the hell are those reports?" Jesus Christ, your nearly hit the ceiling with how high your jumped.

"Markson might've picked them up," a much smoother voice—a recognizable voice—reassured the gruff one, which helped chip away at your stone blood.

In a flurry of limbs, you turned the computer off and jumped behind the monitor.

"We can't hope that he did and call it a day. Those reports are FRD, and while you didn't notice, not everybody in the castle has Q-clearance."

"Yet all have passed our recent counterintelligence scope. Let's contact Markson for now and see if him or any of his men refiled them. If they haven't, we search the palace."

"And what of the possibility that the library is compromised?"

"I can stand guard here and call for a knight. See if anything else has been taken. If a threat were in here and had any ill intent, they would've already made their move."

"Don't be so sure, boy." Now that you listened, you heard the distant opening and closing of the library's portrait-door with crystalline clarity. You also heard the deafening silence thereafter.

"Are you in here, [F/n]?" The voice was, hushed, but identifiably Maxon's. You could tell now that there wasn't a ringing in your ears. "He's gone."

"I'm near the back," you called, shocked at the mousiness of your voice, and scampered out of the aisle with the reports in clammy hand. "I'm sorry-"

"Ugh." You could see Maxon's vehement head shake as you reached the middle of the room. "Don't be. He's far too paranoid. I'll bring them to him later today, say they were tucked away or whatever, kum ba yah."

You placed the stack into Maxon's prim hands. "I mean, mazel tov, but I'm still sorry."

"Meh, I'm more worried about what drove you to read this thing." Maxon held the stack of paper with his thumb and index, swinging it slightly. "It isn't that entrancing of a read."

"Really?" You posed surprise. "Guess there's a difference of opinions between us, then. I was hooked on every word."

"Oh, I know. There are some good parts." Maxon's frown tightened at an exponential rate the more he flipped through the pages. "I'm especially partial to the hyperdetailed description of what the pie charts and bar graphs would've looked like if they'd bothered to actually illustrate them."

"It was captivating," you hesitated. "But I did notice an anomaly in the rebels' typical modus operandi."

Maxon took a step back, and then took another step in. He looked around. "Really?"

"At least in these records." You held the papers between you and Maxon. "Or am I reading this wrong? It seems like their trademark, staggered yet lethal attacks have been stunted by.. how do I put it.."

"Tamer ones?"

"Right. Tamer, habitual attacks within and around the castle. At first I thought it signified a tactic, but there doesn't seem to be any correlation between the niches. Perhaps a secondary rebel group has formed? Some kind of copycat, I don't know."

"You think?" Maxon's honey eyes skimmed the dense, 10pt text.

"Maybe so. I was being careful not to wrongly infer how the rebellion operates, but even the geography doesn't make sense.

"I mean, if the original rebellion had the resources to make it to Angeles this frequently, they would've dismantled the hierarchy a handful of years into your father's reign. No offense."

"None taken."

"And memorandums for towns above Angeles? Since when do the rebels have the time to circumnavigate the province? A secondary horde up north isn't intangible, don't you think?"

Maxon's concentration was on a page of statistics. You swallowed.

"You can be honest—you've more experience with rebels than me. What do you think? How badly am I overanalyzing?"

"On the matter of palace infiltrations with lower mortality rates," he said. "What did you make of the damage?"

"Oh, those?" You scratched the back of your head. "Honestly? It sounded more like a rushed robbery than a revolution. At least an attempt to make it look like a robbery. Less preparation made, I guess."

"Like they're looking for something, almost?"

"That's a.." You stopped. "That's a pretty good idea, actually. Even though what was taken wasn't specified, a nonviolent rebellion would be geared towards revealing corruption in the Schreave dynasty. They could be looking for paper trails."

"I knew it," Maxon whispered, shoving the papers down the inside pocket of his tuxedo. "I knew it."

"What?"

"If you noticed it, then I can't be insane."

"Uh, Maxon?"

"[F/n]." Both of his hands now free, Maxon placed them both on your shoulders. "There are two rebel groups. Northern ones are your harmless bit, southern ones are less hospitable. I think the northerners are scouring the castle for information- confidential information. Literature, even-"

"Literature?"

"They take our books," Maxon explained. "Markson says it's for kindling, but I doubt it. Why risk breaking into the castle for those things just to use them as firewood substitute? They aren't here to scare us, either. They're covert."

"So they're into education." Wait. "How do you know this? Do you journal these somewhere?"

"I-" he shuffled through the sheets again. "I try. But father keeps most of the information on the attacks from me.."

"They're better than nothing, Maxon." But blond busied himself with the papers, a scrutinizing glare befalling his features. "Could I see them?"

Maxon looked up. If his eyes were narrowed before, they were a sliver from shut now. "You want to?"

"Uh, duh. If we collaborate, we might be able to come up with some counterattacks for once. The government shouldn't be fighting defensively in civil war—we have to be proactive."

Maxon looked back down to the papers, and nodded. "Let's get out of here." The blond grabbed you by the hand and pulled you towards the exit. "We have a good two and a half hours before dinner."

"Honestly? I was planning on skipping and staying here." You hooked your arms around Maxon's shoulders as he lifted you up from the pathway and onto the ground. "The levels of tryptophan I'd ingest would make me too drowsy to think."

"You wouldn't be the only no show," Maxon finished the hall in under 15 strides. You pitter-pattered behind him at thrice that much.

"Why's that?" You had absolutely no idea where he was going.

"The girl I just took on a date." Maxon was skipping steps on the stairs. "America Singer. She kneed me in the groin."

"Ouch." You said, and then thought about it a bit more and squirmed. "Ow. Why?"

"She thought I was trying to make a move on her, apparently." Wasn't this the Mars hall? "For someone whose openly expressed having no interest in me, she hasn't been making herself advantageous to keep around."

"Did she have reason to believe you'd try to advance on her?" You suggested. "I'm not trying to excuse her actions in any way, but she doesn't seem like the type to shoot from the hip."

Maxon stopped to give you an over-the-shoulder look, and you recoiled. "Alright, so she actually kind of is, and that sounded very accusatory, but it'd be good practice to take what every Selected does with a grain of salt."

Maxon sighed and pushed a door you didn't notice was behind him open. "I know. I guess I just didn't expect.. ugh, maybe I was flattering myself."

"Don't beat yourself up too much," you advised. "While theres undoubtedly some girls that have more than a loving marriage in mind here, that doesn't mean they'd detest romancing you. They look at it the same way you do: love is great, but there's also insert list of non-romantic benefits."

"I suppose I have been thinking rudimentarily of their goals until now." As Maxon lead you inside the room, the only thing you noticed was how your pupils were dilating. "It just hurts a bit, you know?"

"Yeah, I get it." You rubbed your eyes. "Just because that's how it is doesn't mean you have to be okay with it. By the way, where are we?"

"My room?" Maxon's tone contested your quizzicality. "Where else?"

"I don't know, the void?" Maxon's bedroom? You could make out the silhouettes of furniture, but it was otherwise very minimalist. "Where's the light switch in here?"

"It's one of the older parts of the castle, so it doesn't use much electricity. The room is alight when the sky is alight."

"It's only a little after five."

"Fair." Maxon let go of your hand, and you heard his footsteps grow quieter. "The curtains might be closed.. aha!"

As the blackout curtains were pulled and the shadows expelled, chilled air flooded the room. You hugged your shoulders. "Is the room cold when the air is cold, too?"

"Aw, how'd you know?" Maxon turned to you with a grin. "Feel free to use a blanket if it's that bad."

"That's honestly tempting." Rubbing your hands together, you scanned the walls for any indicator of a hidden compartment. "So, where are they?"

"Try to find it," you heard Maxon tease as you approached the room's terrifically boring walls.

Until they weren't. "This looks discolored." You pushed against a stone accent on the wall.

The stone quivered and rolled sideways with a rough wriggle. In the blink of an eye and the sound of shuffling stones, you were met with a passageway similar to the library's that descended into a cavelike darkness.

"Down here?" You squinted into the abyss, but saw nothing. Sadly, before you could investigate further, Maxon grabbed your arm.

"What the hell?" He laughed, sounding more startled than amused. "That leads to the panic room. Good lord, l'm never asking you to find something again—god knows what you'd come across."

As if guiding a child back to their mother, Maxon gently lead you to a nightstand by his bed. "They're mainly the ones the news don't cover."

"Really?" You ogled as Maxon twisted at the handles on his drawers. "That'll help fill in the blanks."

"How so?"

"As it so happens, I've been taking records of and analyzing rebel attacks for both commonalities and anomalies among the attack sites in hopes to create an algorithm that would—within a statistically acceptable margin of error—provide a list of target-rich rebel environments to conquer."

"You were what?" A draw seemed to fold in on itself, revealing a neat pile of notebooks differing in earthy tones. "Why?"

"I wanted our relationship to be mutualistic." The diaries' brown sugar spines made your fingers twitch. "Asking you to keep me in the Selection and doing nothing in return is.. wow, look at those beauties. Come to momma."

"Uh." Maxon stepped away. "Go ahead? Is this what excites you? Defense analysis?"

"It's stupid, but yeah." Now permitted, you began pulling out two at a time. "It's fun, you know? The game theory part of it is challenging, but in a good way."

"Huh." Maxon, too, began taking out his many journals, some of which he discarded. "It's just frustrating to me."

The journals did help. You got through them in a half hour, and integrating it into your data took a quarter hour.

"Looks like the southerners' next hit is western Midston." Elbows on the bed, you pointed to a map of Illéa that had been drawn on the back of one of the pages. "Afterwards they'll probably storm one or two provinces and make a break for the palace. And it looks like we're overdue for one from up north."

Maxon was hunched over the diary. "Figures. The southerners—why were they in Clermont in the first place? Isn't their strongest hold in the Paloma-Bonita-Honduragua Tri-Province?"

"It's a giant sandbar that people have been terrified to inhabit ever since it started sinking in 2140. They could be looking for easy territory."

"I guess," Maxon sighed and fell back into his bed. "This is so unfair. Why couldn't we have just stayed in the library and read the Left Wing Manifesto?"

"As Machiavelli once wrote." You jotted down a noticing in the margins of the notebook. "The main concern for a prince should be war, or the preparation thereof, not books."

"Isn't that ironic?" Maxon grumbled.

"Situational, yes."

"If I knew any quotes from Anti-Machiavel off the top of my head, you'd be a goner. But really, what should we do about the southerners making their way to Midston?"

"Never get involved in a land war in Asia?"

"Anything else?"

Keep it rolling. "Have you tried sending troops?"

Maxon emitted a something close to a laugh, but not quite. "God be with you, [N/n]. Father has been occulting the predicament for a good month, but we've been trying to intercept them for weeks by now. And all of our strength in arms is either guarding the palace or at the New Asian front."

"Oh."

"Oh is really an appropriate way of putting it," he spat, tossing his hands up. "We're repeatedly overwhelmed. You know, the definition of insanity is-"

"-Doing the same thing, over and over, and expecting a different result," you finished for him. Maxon nodded and fell back onto his bed. "Alright, sure. What type of towns are they hitting?"

"It's what you would expect." Maxon's lax hand movements were making it difficult to focus on his speech. "Isolated, scarcely populated, no strong militia, whatever. Easy places to raid."

"Hm." You tried to visualize a map, but lack of background wasn't helpful. "How far between the town, castle, and any surrounding city?"

"Around 850 miles from the castle, but I don't think there's anything around for a couple hundred."

"Do you know the average distance between each town they hit?"

"You expect too much of me. Maybe a little over 100?"

Okay, cool. "Are you familiar with the 1812 fire of Moscow?" Maxon shook his head.

You returned to your seat. "It was probably one of the first usages of scorched earth tactics. When the French armies moved to overtake the capital of Russia during the Napoléonic Wars, Tsar Alexander I's advisor Fyodor Rostopchin convinced him to burn the capital down."

"Oh," Maxon said. "That's... intense."

"Oh is a great way of putting it. It was indeed, but it forced an undefeated military genius into bitter retreat with virtually zero actual army used in the defense's part."

"You're saying to burn down the town we think they're headed to?"

"Maybe not go as far as that, but make it uninhabitable." You started to count off on your fingers. "Relocate the citizens, take any food or gas, might as well break the ceilings in while you're at it."

"Chances are they're just pit stopping. If there's no fuel or food to replenish their supplies with, they won't be able to make the rest of the trip. That's my opinion, at the least."

Maxon seemed to be toying with the idea. "It seems a bit.. well, it sounds plausible, I'm not sure if my father would be so kind as to facilitate evacuating townspeople or rebuilding afterwards."

"That's unfortunate." You opened one of the journals to the latest entry. "You should still try, though. Is there a good way to approach him on the subject?"

"Don't you dare put this on me. I'm just not cut out for fighting wars. My great-great grandfather would be disappointed."

"I'm not meaning to leave you hanging." You stretched. "You know your father better than I do. You'd have better sense at the pros and cons of a negotiating approach than I.

"Plus, I don't want to push you to do anything you're unsure of. Truth be told, I have as little idea of what to do as you do."

Maxon imitated your final address in an irritatingly higher pitch.

You mimicked him with an even higher one as sat against the side of his bed.

"Here I thought you'd be the bigger person in this." Maxon cleared his throat, and the next time he spoke, his vocals had been replaced with a piglet's. "Look at me, I'm [F/n]. I went vegan after throwing up chicken and don't know how to use a toilet."

"Look at me, I'm Maxon," you lowered your voice. "I struggle reading Green Eggs and Ham and couldn't gamble if everyone's cards were translucent."

A deep, thrumming laugh filled the room, and Maxon reverted to his normal voice for a second. "You really went in. I'm [F/n] and I can't walk in heels." You gasped.

"You're serious right now?" You thumbed through the pages. "I'm Maxon and I can't walk in heels, either, so I don't really know why I'm bringing it up." Maxon's laughter grew. "And I also can't write in block print."

"Hey, wait a minute." Maxon slid off of his bed. "I write in cursive for publicity's sake."

"Even in your super secret journals?" You lifted a book scrawled in curly calligraphy. Maxon rolled his eyes and went back to reading.

"I also write in block in my super secret journals, thank you very much."

"I don't see any."

"..Give me that." He snatched the book out of your hands and searched one of his entries for any unjoined, Arial-esque letters.

Nothing. He went red. "No."

You started to laugh, and Maxon stood up.

"No, no, no. Stop that right now." Like that would help. "I can write in print. Look." he started rummaging through his desk again. "Look."

Loose leaf paper and pen were slammed on the tabletop. You got to your feet just in time to watch Maxon stop an inch before coming into contact with the paper, rolling the pen in his hand as his face began to twist.

"Just give me a second," he grunted.

His contorting face and skittish grip readjustments were just shy of throwing you overboard. You held your breath as he pressed the pen down on the paper, pushing it this way and that while keeping its trail out of your sight.

When he finally backed away to reveal a mangled version of "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" denting the pages, nearing chicken scratch, you doubled over.

"The table's curved!" He barked.

"Of course!"

"It's curved!"

"Whatever you say!"

"I can write in print!"

"Well, damn, Maxon." You slapped the boy on the leg. "Why don't you apply that confidence to ruling? You're the one that keeps telling me to get an ego, and yet you get all insecure when it comes to military."

"But that's because I don't know how to," Maxon insisted. "I'm just stating the facts. I can print, I can't command troops. Simple."

Sneering, you began to return the military records to their usual hiding place. "If that's what you think, sure. But you're getting better. You identified several patterns I overlooked."

"Two is not several."

"You should still give yourself some credit," you insisted. "On the topic of stress, still, how are you?"

The prince frowned, twiddling his thumbs. "What do you mean?"

"You know, with the bachelorettes."

"Oh." He stewed in the topic for a minute and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sigh. Not good. My father wants an elimination in less than two weeks, and I don't know how I'm supposed to make it through them all."

You clasped your hands together. "That's something else I could help with! There's 20 or so of us, right? I can do a personality profile of 15 in a day or two, easy."

"You're serious?" Maxon asked. "How? You're sharp, I'll give you that, but how would you be able to break the Selected like that for me?"

"How about I demonstrate?" You opted. "I met Elise Whisks yesternight. Paragon of regality, might I add. Want a psycheval if her?"

"A what?"

"I'll provide two perspectives sectioned into pros and cons: romantic and diplomatic."

"How long have you had this in your head?" Maxon asked. "Just give me the cons."

"Well, then. My only critique would have to be her older way of thinking and lack of a playful streak, but that's just me."

"That's just in her upbringing," Maxon pointed out. "New Asia is very traditional."

You grinned. "That's true, but couple that with her crystallized intransigence, and you've got yourself a problem.

"You know how sometimes, when you're working on a project, you become so frustrated with your coworkers that you-"

"-Refuse to participate anymore?" Maxon nodded knowingly. "Just sit back, wait for things to go wrong, and maybe add an "I told you so" at the end? Yeah."

"Exactly. Imagine that increased tenfold. Ta-da!" You added jazz hands for extra effect. "You've got Elise's mindset. Not good with synergy, thrives off schadenfreude, and never takes a loss with any amount of equanimity."

Maxon crossed his arms. "Every time I've taken her out, all she's done is roll over and adore me. It's honestly aggravating."

You blinked. "Have you ever considered it's because she doesn't want to offend you?"

"Given how short we are on time," Maxon sneered. "If she hasn't figured she should stop walking on eggshells and cut to the chase, she's not quick enough for me or the job that comes with."

O-kay. "Fair point. Then I won't bother you about it anymore. Still, as you've likely already considered, she has ties with New Asia, so you should probably keep her for awhile."

"Thanks, mom. And I got that." Maxon waved you off. "Truthfully, I wasn't going to eliminate her if you told me she killed somebody. Father would be furious."

The notion didn't offend you much. "Good choice. Would've been a dumb thing if you did in this political climate."

"Both of you two's moral ambiguity is disconcerting, to say the least." You hit the floor and covered your head.

"Who th- Gideon?" You saw Maxon's jawline jerk to the entrance of his bedroom. "Christ, don't scare me like that!"

"Gideon?" You looked up as the translator shut the double doors the translator, very pleased with himself, and putter towards you.

"Apologies," he said. "I didn't expect to find both of you in the same place, but I'm not complaining. Just makes things easier for me."

You had recovered quickly, and stood up. "You're forgiven, but while you can preach ethics all you want, social institutions run on business models."

"I am but, unfortunately, a mere tycoon," Maxon finished, gesturing to himself as an adoring mother would a child. "Trying my best to navigate the currents of foreign policy without upsetting my father."

Unfortunately? Whatever, you'll go with it. "An entrepreneur in an international market curbing magnanimity-induced naïvety."

Gideon shook his head as the two of you cackled wickedly amongst one another. "Moving on. God." He now talking to Maxon as if you weren't there once more. "Just set the girl up against a some palace worker you don't like and have her pummel them."

"I'm considering it by now." Maxon had long since approached Gideon in greeting, and was now simply treading the room.

"The girl?" You asked.

"You," they clarified.

"Whoa, there," you said. "If you're thinking of putting me in an mortifyingly intellectually dishonest environment to argue with corrupted politicians, stop effective immediately."

The crown prince rose a brow. "Sorry?"

"I second that," said Gideon. "What's the worst that could happen if you sent a socially acceptable, PC comeback a crooked courtier's way?"

"Here's the thing." You put your hands on the two's shoulders, drumming your fingers against their pads. "Social issues? Sure, I might know my way around an erudite discussion. But that's only half of politics, and I'm no McArthur Wheeler.

"Fiscal problems? I've read, what, a book on macroeconomics? Pitting me against people who've taken so much as a civics class wouldn't-"

"Oh, calm down," Maxon said. "How about you psychoanalyze yourself for a confidence boost?"

"Introspection is biased," you explained. "I could dissect your behavior at this very moment, though."

Maxon perked. "Really?"

The only image that made its way to your forefront of thought was Maxon's bruised wrists. "No."

Maxon gawked, and you decided to rub salt in the wound. "Maybe if you paid me."

Maxon was now encircling you in short, brisk steps. "Excuse me? Do you know who you're talking to? I could kick you out, you know. Right here, right now."

"I dare you. I absolutely dare you." You mirrored Maxon's temper tantrum, forcing him to synchronize with you in a figure-eight traipse. He occasionally swatted at you whenever you were in proximity. "You won't. I dare you. You won't."

"Bleh." Maxon has already become acquiescent to your mockery, tossing his hands up with as nonchalant a motion one could make. "It's not worth my time."

"Like how the other Selected aren't?" Gideon inserted, tugging on his collar. You blinked, and whatever brave soul possessed him in that moment was gone. He shrunk. "That was a joke."

Fear not, the product of all that probable mental preparation would not fall on deaf ears. One harsh, hearty laugh left your lungs, and your hand pressed itself to your stomach seconds after.

At that moment, Maxon could be mistaken for a tomato much too easily. And you couldn't take that seriously, either. "[F/n]."

"T- ok, ok, sorry." You carefully peeled your hand off your mouth. "But yeah, I could case study some Selected you're ever feeling stressed over your polygyny. Or just beat up another guard cathartic effect style."

"That would be nice," Maxon said. "Your combat readiness really.." he let the sentence hang, looking between you and Gideon. "...swept me off my feet."

"Ugh," Gideon groaned.

"Hilarious." Nothing was ever as waterlogged with sarcasm as that one word. "Irrefutable comedy gold, there."

"Thank you, thank you." Maxon made a few munificent, microscopic bows. "I'll be here all day. I live here, actually."

Okay, you're willing to admit snickered a bit at that.

"Don't encourage him!"

"You're doing great, Maxon!" Maxon was thrilled with the affirmation.

"Oh, man, I'm feeling the encouragement." Maxon shook his arms in an awfully close fashion to jazz hands. "All this positive reinforcement. I might just do a comedy panel on the Report."

The royal babysitter sneered, but your only interest was stoking the fire. "Definitely. Just waltz in there and announce that you're raising taxes and enforcing a UBI."

Maxon rubbed his hands together. "Yes, yes, yes. The Schreave dynasty will be the one to shift towards more socialist ideology. Authoritarian left, to be exact."

"You'll abolish private property," you finished.

"Right. And rid Illéa of the bourgeoise once and for all. Violently, of course."

"Look at you, summarizing the goals of Marxism." You bumped shoulders with the prince. "Have you been reading?"

Gideon rolled his eyes at the faux huffs and puffs coming from either of you. "Settle down, kids. [F/n], I needed to talk to you about your sword fight."

"Sword fight?" You stopped, and Maxon—with his imperfect sense of direction—bumped into you. "What about it?"

"Well." Gideon readjusted his tie. "The people really, really liked it. Captain Markson is trying to arrange something with his Highness' concerning your interactions with the knighthood."

"Like what?" You found Maxon holding your back to his chest. "We can't have her dueling to make the media happy. She's trying to present herself as a businesswoman, not a martial artist."

You shuddered and tried to shrug him off.

"My thoughts exactly," Gideon sighed. "I'm worried his Highness will agree just for the opportunity to put her in a bad light intellectually. Label her as too violent for palace life."

"God, no. I need her here." Maxon glanced back at his nightstand, the drawer holding his stash of notebooks open a crack. "Will they be consulting me or her about this, or will it just-?"

Gideon shook his head. "Probably not. That's why I'm mentioning the debates.

"Even though they're typically reserved for the Elites, we need to give [F/n] a chance to show Illéa she'd be better off in the political arena than an actual one and quick."

"The debates? Gideon, you know how my father is." Red flags. "He'd have a fit. Can't we just.. I don't know, invite her to more diplomatic dinners? The seniors love her."

"You're worried about his Highness getting mad and you bring up diplomatic dinners? Max, this has to do with public opinion." Gideon frowned. "And the crown's making her out to be a gladiator."

"Hey, hey," you started. "Let's not make any rash decisions, here." Or get Clarkson mad at Maxon. "Gideon, what's our time limit on this? When do you think they'll approach me?"

Gideon rolled his shoulders. "I'm not sure. I'd say within a week they'll have everything sorted out."

"That's more than enough time to turn the media's outlook of me on its head." You nudged Maxon. "Do you usually let cameras roam the palace?"

"Not right now." Maxon sounded more perturbed than anything. "You're really supposed to be introduced to the news cycle after the first Report. Afterwards, cameras are very.. ubiquitous."

"Just throw them at me when they come," you said. "It'll be a hellish week, sure, but it might help thwart my soon-to-be forced partnership with the knights."

Gideon wasn't having it. "As much as I enjoy win-win alternatives, we don't have time to test them out. The debates are the safest way to ensure you aren't put on the hot seat."

"Please." You grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "What type of gambler takes the safe route?"

Gideon opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. He turned to Maxon with a glare. "At the very least, could you allow for more interviews of the Selected? Give her screen time?"

You frowned. "I don't want to be a-"

"I'll try, 'Deon." Maxon let go of your shoulder. "You have a point. I can just make up some nonsense about popularity polls to my father."

The thought of Maxon's father doing so much as frown in his direction made your skin crawl. "I appreciate the worry, but you shouldn't have to work to keep me in the Selection. If I'm going to be given special treatment, let's not get King Clarkson involved."

Gideon stared at you, but not directly. His eyes were fixated on an area over your shoulder, as though he refused to meet your gaze.

"If you so insist, but if that's what you're worried about, Maxon can't avoid his father forever. Maxon," his voice rose. "His Highness wants you present at the budget meeting after dinner."

"Oh, really?" Now Maxon sounded annoyed. "I wonder what will happen. Oh, I know. Absolutely nothing."

Gideon rolled his eyes. "He says he's reconsidering putting more funding into lower caste education."

"He always says that," the crown prince grumbled. "[F/n], why do you have a look on your face?"

"Sorry?" You patted your cheeks and startled yourself by their rigidity.

"She's an educated Seven," Gideon drawled. "How do you think she'd react to those intangible policies?"

"Intangible?" Maxon turned to you, brows nearly off his forehead. "[F/n], while you've been askance on your personal experience with the systematic oppression of the caste system, surely you don't think educating them is fool's talk?"

Talk about a loaded question. You shrunk back into your dress.

"No?" You squeaked. "An educated nation is important."

"He's leaving out the best part," Gideon said. "The thought that somehow, after convincing the committees to execute it, crime rates will magically hit an all-time low. And that's all there is planned to achieve that."

You blinked. "What? You can't give Sixes and Sevens pencils and boast that you've solved classism."

"What?"

"Exactly!"

"No." You glared at Gideon. "I'm not saying the policy is wrong, it's just approaching its goal the wrong way. You can't expect a bunch of detached nepotists to know about the status of the lower castes."

"Thank you!" Maxon snapped. "That's a bit insulting, but thank you!"

Now to deal with this guy. "You aren't out of the woods yet, buddy." Maxon froze. "Where do you get those crime statistics you're trying to hard to bring down?"

"Uh, the public security intelligence agency?"

"Did you know that PSIA crime statistics only track those that are successfully convicted of a crime, even though the vast majority of crimes committed go aren't even reported, let alone lead to a successful arrest, prosecution, and conviction?"

Maxon was staring at his feet. "Couple that with how heavy police presence in low caste ghettos, low casters are more likely to get stopped by the police, and low casters are more likely to get convicted for the same crimes as a high caster.

"That's just the tip of the iceberg, Maxon. You can't Occam's razor statistics. Do you think hand sanitizers kill 99.99% of all germs, too? Gideon."

Gideon flinched, the upturned corners of his lips dropping. "Stop smiling. Unlike our future sovereign, you have influence over King Clarkson's policymaking. Your lack of action is equally as, if not more inexcusable."

"Hah." Maxon grinned.

You turned away from both, folding your arms across your chest. "Secondly, addressing the root of this problem, have either of you ever heard of Maslow's hierarchy of needs?"

Both shook their heads. "It's a humanistic approach to developmental psychology. It classifies the needs of an individual from basic to self-fulfillment.

"A good education is included, so thank you for your efforts, Maxon, as they are important." Maxon glowed. "But it's not at the base of the pyramid; not considered the most crucial of elements. We first need to address those before working up."

"What's on the bottom?" Maxon asked. "If we need to start there, just tell me what I need to do."

You sighed. "Physiological needs. They need the bare necessities—food, shelter, clothing—before they need higher level education."

"What?"

"I'm not trying to snuff out your idea. I'm just saying, if you have extra money laying around, put a little in governmental handouts before going straight to developmental programs."

"I, I mean.."

"Things that can help the impoverished carry their own weight in the future and other economically productive activities come after they have roofs over their heads."

"No, no, not that." The white's of Maxon's eyes were irrevocably large. "Are you meaning to tell me these people don't have food, shelter, or clothing?"

Your hands fell to your sides.

You looked over to Gideon, who looked as terrified as you, though a little more prepared. He shrugged.

You found it hard to face Maxon. "You're kidding me," you said.


	7. Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader proves herself to be a sufficient character foil as well as a badass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I wrote these awhile ago and am only now posting them somewhere, so forgive me if these summaries and such are a bit off.

"What quality of life was I supposed to expect amongst the lower castes? Homelessness?"

"What quality of life did you have in mind? A tiny house with two parental units, two and a half children, and the occasional maid?"

"[F/n], he didn't know."

"How was I supposed to? You didn't tell me anything like that whenever we talked about the caste system."

"Maxon, being helicoptered by your advisors is one thing, but 97% of Illéa's population consists of people at and below Fours living in different shades of poverty. Forgive me, but I didn't think you were that out of touch."

"Jesus." Maxon wiped his forehead. "97%?"

"1.396 billion."

"That still doesn't explain why you didn't say anything."

"Because-" was he seriously asking that? "Because I don't want to put myself out there as a Seven for no reason? Believe it or not, but living on the streets is not something to flaunt."

"You're worried about how good you look in front of me? You don't have to! I literally asked you about your experiences as a Seven! I wanted to hear about it! Why didn't you tell me before? What about that whole camaraderie we started off of trust?"

Oh. A memory flickered in the back of your head, and you felt your cheeks begin to burn. "I-I was going to tell you."

"Oh, sure you were."

"Maxon." You fanned the steam coming out of your ears. "I honest to god thought you knew about the living conditions of lower castes; and given the type of people you've lived around, I didn't want to test the plausibility you learned to bear some ire for lower castes from those around-"

"Well, with all due respect, [F/n]." Maxon's voice only raised. "But despite all your factoids, most people below a Six are there for a reason. You really had to work at being an improper citizen to end up there. Stealing and-"

"There it is," you exhaled, tossing a hand.

"There's what? The caste system was built upon how much each family contributed to the founding of Illéa. You can't avoid the fact that they're-"

"Have you forgotten I'm a Seven?" You piped up. "What are you implying?"

It was now Maxon's own cheeks flared. "I'm implying nothing unless you're a criminal. Is that what you are? Some kind of delinquent trying to defend yourself?"

What the hell were you supposed to say to that? Plead the fifth? The Constitution was no longer in effect, anyways.

"Maxon." for the first time in awhile, you struggled to formulate coherent sentences.

"Its a yes or no question." His words only grew more sour. "Is that why you know your way around weaponry, then? You were a thief and miscreant, like other Sevens?"

You tasted something similar to pink lemonade in your mouth.

"Okay." You rubbed your eyes. "You wanna know why I-" air quotes initiated. "-Know my way around weaponry?"

"M-" you heard a weak voice intercept.

"I want to know if I'm talking to a felon right now," Maxon cut Gideon off with an edged retort. "I suppose there's not much difference."

You twirled a lock of hair through your fingers. "Well, it's unrelated to food, but I know my way around weaponry because it was easier to get men off me with them."

Maxon shut up.

You heard Gideon curse under his breath, which you were fine with. "Well, at first, to get men off my sister.

"She was older than me, sure—she always looked mature for her age. But she was built more.. delicately than I. Does that make any sense?" You were both surprised and revolted by the nostalgia in your voice. "She was easier to target. You know where I'm going with this, right? It's kind of ironic. She was your picture perfect civilian. I was much less avid of abidance."

"[F/n]-"

"You'd think I'd be the one to suffer more for my actions—my refusal to follow the rules. That her ardency for law would've paid off, made things easier, I don't know. Like in the stories."

"[F/n]."

"Instead, I had to listen to her nearly starve to death every night until she could barely lift her head. Out of virtue." Your voice reduced to a hiss, but you didn't care much. "She was pretty much gone when-"

"[F/n]!" You felt Gideon's voice sharpen, and a hand placed itself on your shoulder.

But that wasn't the best time. Not when you were immersed in your own memory. The dimly lit, low-ceiling, cheap decor of a casino had overridden your senses. You could hear the soft shuffling of cards and sharp snickers of the old men and the drumming of fingers against the work table. Stacks of poker chips swirled in your peripheral.

You could smell the cigarette smoke and sangria on Gideon's sonorous voice. You slapped his hand off in a skittish smack.

Pain pricked at your scalp, but you couldn't stop pulling your hair. You shot Gideon a smile. "My bad, Gideon. I-" you looked around. "I'll stop. Besides."

Not on your own accord, you winked to the courtier. "-If protecting my sister makes me a criminal, I obviously wasn't a good enough one, huh?"

You pushed on your eyes with one hand when you felt them misting, and shook your head. "I think I need some time to myself," you announced, pressing two fingers to your throat. "I'll be heading to my room now. Excuse me."

"Make yourself comfortable," Maxon called after you as you made your way to the door. "You'll be staying there for dinner. Why don't you write a letter to your sister? Maybe she can knock some sense into you."

"Will do, my lord." You closed the door behind you and headed back to your room. Piss off.

The next morning was alright. You allowed yourself to eat a bit more, which was very rewarding.

Observing the sheen of the metal curtains bolted to the windows, ready to be pulled whenever, was starting to become a pastime of yours, as well. It kept your mind off things.

The possibility of being eliminated, for instance. The regret you felt for dumping your background on someone already so fragile when it was completely unrelated to the argument.

..It seemed you were noticing a bit more of the perfunctory precautionary measures taken by the castle for rebel attacks ever since yesterday. The security bars next to each double door, the multifarious locks lining every other door, all of the panic buttons hidden away on the sides of chairs or behind shelves..

"Hey." Elise nudged you. "Why weren't you at dinner yesterday?"

"Oh, I'm only interested in the governmental ones." You grinned, rolling your heavy shoulders. Elise laughed delicately, a remark readied on her lips, but she was cut off by Kriss' meek voice.

"So, how was it?" Elise looked over you, and you followed her gaze. Everybody's eyes were on America, who looked as though she'd rather not be there at the moment.

The redhead took in a breath. Well, more of a sharp inhale. "Indescribable."

You cocked a brow and went back to your apple fritter. Nah. Maxon's love life was officially none of your business. You doubt he'd want you meddling in it for no apparent reason.

"How did he act?" Tiny asked.

"Umm... not at all how I expected he would."

Okay. Alright. It was hard not to tune in when the professional liar in you was shrieking.

Was it that hard to make something up? Really and truly? The girl couldn't be thickheaded enough to not know the strain her elusive phrasing had on everybody else.

"Are you being like on purpose?" Zoe interjected. "If you are, it's awfully mean."

God, just say you discussed reactionary conservative leadership in China or something. Or that you kicked him in the crotch. Whichever works best.

"No, it's just that-"

In the distance, you could hear shouts. A familiar type. There was a vibrato to them that you'd learned to identify. They cluttered the buzzing atmosphere a special way—deregulating it's palpitations. A panicked cadence mixed with crystalline articulation, loud but not shrill.

You stood up before King Clarkson could clue everyone else in.

Well, the algorithm did say the castle was overdue for a northerner attack.

Windows. Those aren't very safe in the midst of an attack. In strides wide enough to surpass Maxon's, you moved a row of them and began pulling down hurricane shutter after hurricane shutter.

Halfway through sliding shut your current shutter, a pair of fumbling hands set themselves on either side of yours.

"Let me help." You looked over your shoulder, and America Singer was sweating bullets. Just looking at her sorry disposition made you feel endangered. "I can help."

"Uh." She started to sway, and you briefly abandoned partially drawn shutter to steady her. "It's-"

But America was staring past you, into the flood of evanescent rebels. You turned and followed her eyes.

A pair of people, probably around your age, had thrown themselves over the garden walls. Facing the two of you. One was holding something in their hand.

You lunged forward, grabbing the back of America's dress and pulling her behind you.

"Move!" In the moment of that utterance, you outstretched you're fingers and the grenade hit your curved digits.

For the short, surreal second it rolled into your palm, you inspected its build.

A high-pitched, crazed beeping blared from it, escalating in amplitude and frequency. Frightening. Almost like it was built to be.

You see, for all of it's frightening noise and lurid color scheme, it's anatomy was that of a canister. The wafer thin tin crunched beneath your grip.

They didn't intend to kill. You hurled it back over the garden wall, and it combusted into cloud of goldenrod seconds after.

Slamming the shutter shut, you shimmied the latch down into lock position. Just in time that, before America tried to scream, you covered her mouth.

Her arm in your hand, you pulled her into an tight embrace. "Don't," you whispered into her ear. There was nothing to be scared of.

In lieu of her fingers trying to tear your hand off her mouth, she nodded. You let go of her, and felt a twinge of guilt when she rubbed the arm you gripped, but not enough to shock you out of lockdown mode.

You were afraid to see. Yet you did. And when you looked over your shoulder to follow the hypothetical trajectory, you saw Queen Amberly and Maxon crouched down beside Markson, inspecting a map splayed onto the floor.

In a curt turn of your heel, you went to close another window.

Once all of the glass offenders were closed, you could only join the rest of the Selected and look around. Look for anymore safety hazards.

How long were you going to be here? Should you hoist up your dress? Should you get a knife from the head table? Would people freak out if you got a knife from the head table?

Still scanning your surroundings, you stopped at a certain soldier.

He was leaning against the wall, not too far from where you were standing.

Maybe if he was by himself it'd be less noticeable, but with several guards on either side of him, his left shoulder seemed to lie awkwardly on the breastplate, as if it were an extension of the armor rather than himself.

The other guards' hands were either crossed in front of their chests or occupied with rifles and non-throw dories, his odd arm was tucked behind his back. The free one pressed against the trough of his odd arm's shoulder.

As his eyes were squeezed shut, he didn't notice you approaching him until one of his buddies elbowed him. "-Charlie-" one of them had said.

"Charles?" You echoed. Chances are he wasn't really tuning in, because the look on his face made it easy to infer he hadn't a clue how you knew. "Is your shoulder alright?"

He glanced down to his shoulder, scoffing, and his grip loosened. This newfound recovery, however, was soon replaced with an even tighter, trepidatious cradle. "Uh, it's fine. I just pulled something."

"More like something pulled you," a knight mused aloud.

"Shut it, Ali."

"It looks dislocated," you commented.

Charles laughed over you, voice shrill. "Dislocated? It's not dislocated. Look, if it were dislocated, could I do this?"

Charles raised his arm into jagged L shape and letting the lower arm swing like a robot-ish pendulum. The other guards collectively sighed.

"Yes," you answered patiently.

"It's not dislocated." He fanned you away. "Injured, maybe, but not dislocated. I've never broken a bone in my life. It's not dislocated. I'm fine."

"Charles." You tapped the end of his bent shoulder. "Do you know what this is?"

He inched away. "Apologies, but hands off, miss. It's not dislocated, and you're just gonna make it worse. And that's my upper arm."

"Well, that muscle's the anterior forearm, but I meant the bone up here. It's called the greater tubercle of humerus." You weren't going to lie and say that you wouldn't do anything. You just needed to get him a bit distracted.

"This is the humeral head." As his eyes fell onto his shoulder, you your other arm ghosted up his back. "It connects to the glenoid, also known as the socket."

"In reality-" you slid your hand further, barely hovering, edging each of them closer into full contact with the skin. "There's actually two joints that make up the shoulder joint. There's a synovial joint, but the more important one is the ball-and-socket joint."

Careful. "It meets with the raised area  
at the lateral margin of the humerus right..." Careful. "...-Here."

You pushed the ball of Charles' shoulder back into its socket before Charles even recognized your hands were on him. "The synovial fluids between joints have one of the lowest coefficients of friction, actually. 0.01 for static, 0.003 for kinetic, if my memory serves me."

"That's great and all, but just don't touch it, okay?" Charles whined. "It doesn't even hurt. I can get Dr. Ashlar to look at it. Please don't."

You patted his shoulder. "Oh, you don't need to. I put it back. You're fine."

"O- wait." A humored rumble arose from the rest of the guards as Charles wrung his arm. "Huh? What? You put it back?"

"Yes."

"Back in place?"

"Yes."

"Like-" he pushed himself off the wall. "-relocated?"

"Well, you said it was never dislocated, anyways." You shrugged. "In which case, I didn't do much."

"I-" Charles continued to shake his arm, readjusting the armor and rolling his shoulders once or thirteen times. "Wh- uh, thanks. I.. didn't feel anything."

"Hey, miss?" Another guard called. "Name's Cole. Uh, do you think you could help me with my arm over here?"

And so...

You tutted. "Looks like we'll have to cut it off."

"You're bluffing." Mathouchanh's body language betrayed the adamance in his voice—for all that gruffness, he began limping away from you at the maximum speed one could limp. "You're bluffing."

"I was joking." You started after the shuffling redhead. "Get back here."

"How do you spell epicondyle again?" Hunter whispered, the ink from the pen on his makeshift cast pooling on the tail of an E.

"E-p-i." Having grabbed Mathouchanh by his collar, you proctored Hunter's lettering as you returned to the wall. "C-o-n.. d-y-l-e. Mathouchanh, stop." The struggling guard whimpered. "Your leg is literally broken."

"Yes, ma'am," he said miserably, much like a child to his mother. His eyes then drifted beyond your glare. "Morning again, your Majesty."

"Good morning, officer," Maxon replied. "I expect Lady [F/n]'s taking good care in patching you up?"

You turned around, and Maxon was inches from you. "If I'd hold still for her, probably," Mathouchanh said.

"Ma- Your Majesty." You shook your head, blinking furiously. "I'm so sorry, I hadn't a clue you were there."

"You didn't see him last time, either." Hunter interjected, turning the pen in his mouth.

"Last time?"

"I tried to speak with you after you had finished bandaging.." the blond tilted his head towards the assembly line of injured soldiers. "But you seemed preoccupied."

"Oh." The guards around you snickered. Maxon raised a hand, shaking his head with a warm smile.

"It's quite alright. Ensuring everyone is in stable condition triumphs going through the motions of the Selection." Maxon's hand brushed yours. "..-But may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Of course." Reluctantly, you slung Mathouchanh’s arm over Hunter’s shoulder, and followed Maxon to the border of the crowd of Selected.

"Are you doing okay?" He whispered. "I know you're tough, but catching grenade midair doesn't sound fun."

"You saw that?"

"I pretended not to for awhile."

You checked your hand. The only thing left of the grenade was a slight, red impression of the splint in the middle of your palm.

"I'm alright." You flexed your fingers. "It was just a gaudy smoke canister. Northerner work, I'd presume. Felt bad for man-handling America over something so petty."

Maxon's shoulders slumped. "I had a guard check on her. She's a bit consternated, but relieved."

There was a pause in dialogue, and you felt a knot burgeon in your stomach. Why'd you have to start feeling bad right now? No, that's not the right question, why were you such a bitch to him yesterday? It's not like it's his fault, and you went and threw your entire backstory on him.

Apologize. Now. "Maxon, I'm-"

"-Sorry-"

The two of you stopped. Maxon was giving you a sad but funny look, and you couldn't help but return it.

"Uh-" you both said, and stopped. Again.

Maxon chuckled, as did you. When you simultaneously pointed to one another with raised brows, you giggled a little louder.

"Okay," Maxon said. "You first."

"Sounds good." You ahem'd, and then remembered why you were talking. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I should've known that your father was- just.. it's not your fault, and I shouldn't have said that."

"What?" Maxon's smile vanished. "No, [F/n]. This isn't your fault at all. It's like you said—it's not your or Gideon's job to keep me informed about my kingdom. Honestly, it's ridiculous that I didn't know."

"But it's not your fault," you reiterated. "I'm the hypocrite, here. Total tu quoque. Talking about how our relationship was based on trust or whatever and then keeping vital—and probably helpful—information about me from you."

"I prioritize your comfort over me learning information I should already know," Maxon butted in.

"But I acted like you- ugh. I just got way too emotional, and I started monologuing like some blockhead, and you didn't-" could you stop stuttering for five minutes? "I didn't mean to put all of that on you."

"But you have a right to!" Maxon shook his head. "I'm the ruler of this country, and I- and.."

Maxon.. growled? It was definitely something of the sorts. "I-I- I said some moronic stuff. I was mortified of the amount that I didn't know about my kingdom, and I said things I didn't mean. Really.." he took in a breath. "Really didn't mean. And for that I'm sorry.

"Your-" his face twisted. "Your sister. Gideon told me, and, oh, what I said, [N/n], I'm so, so sorry. You're right, I'm such an idiot. I really-"

Maxon took in a breath, polished his hair, and straightened his shoulders. "I one day I can make what I said and how I acted up to you. But I understand if not."

So much for that idiocracy. "I forgive you," you cut in.

Maxon looked at you for a short moment, let out a short breath, and turned away.

"Eheh." He rubbed his eyes. "[N/n], you can't just-"

"Oh, but I can." You put a finger on Maxon's chest. "And I am. You didn't have any way of knowing that stuff, and you shouldn't beat yourself up over it. Plain and simple."

"I guess, but just because I didn't know doesn't excuse what I said."

"I'm not excusing you. I'm forgiving you."

"The line's pretty thin, isn't it?" Maxon's murmurs were wavering more by the second.

"Excusing you would imply there's nothing you did wrong, ergo nothing to forgive. You did something wrong, but I forgive you because I understand how you felt when you did it.

"I get frustrated, too. It turns me into a real brat, let me tell you." Maxon smiled through his sniffling. "Like when I throw a treasure trove of emotional baggage on someone who wasn't at all involved in my past predicaments, nor could do anything about them. Do you think they could forgive me for being a dullard? An ignoramus?"

"I think they could," Maxon said.

"That's good. And before I send you off, how are you holding up?"

"Good." Maxon glanced to the guards. "Seems our little algorithm worked out.." He ducked in a breath between his teeth and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Splendidly."

"Let's not get overzealous, here," you mentioned, and Maxon clicked his tongue.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm glad it's accurate. Problem is, I now feel morally obligated to persuade my father into burning down villages in Midston."

"You could try approaching the presidents or senior advisors of certain committees?" You suggested. "Perhaps if your father heard it from someone else, he'd be more open to the idea."

"Ugh!" Maxon groaned. "I wish! Ever since the New Asian war started, Varga is the only one of his retinue he's taken military advice from. Both could care less about me."

"What about Markson?"

"Honestly, it'd be better if you brought that up with him." Maxon rolled his eyes. "He adores you. I'm willing to bet that he's gushing to father about your fighting prowess as we speak."

You laughed away the bitter taste on your tongue. "They don't waste much time on roping people into things, do they?"

"They don't." Maxon's copper eyes sailed across the room. "Otherwise than that, I've made most of the mandatory stops, but still haven't spoken with two or three of the Selected. Including the girl who kneed me in the groin."

"Ooh," you grimaced. "I mean, I can empathize, but I guess that wouldn't be very nice to you, as the unsuspecting aristocrat."

"So does every girl have some experience with sexual harassment, and that's just another thing I didn't know about, or do I just come off as creepy?" Maxon prodded. You chuckled.

"I don't know the statistics-"

"That's new." Wow. Hilarious. You shot Maxon a glare. He batted his eyelashes in response.

"-But I'd say hopefully neither." Your eyes skimmed the crowd of hyperventilating teenagers. "It's just that, while everyone expects them to, they aren't going to, if they think you're coming onto them, to just.. I don't know."

"What?" Maxon revered.

This was getting knotty to elaborate on. "Maybe not the best word, but they're their own people, as dignified and complex as you."

"That's a new concept for me," Maxon mentioned.

"Ugh!" You smacked his arm. "Don't act shallow. You're gonna make me laugh and it'll be embarrassing and dumb."

Maxon wiggled, to which you hissed and turned away. "I'll have to try harder."

"I'm being serious. They haven't spent their entire lives sitting with their legs crossed waiting to, I don't know, pounce on you."

"Pounce, huh?"

"Good g-" Maxon was snickering again, and your hands twitched. "Cut me some slack, I'm winging this! Point is, most of them might want to get to know you before marriage. Especially with America, which could be why she wasn't keen on the prospect of you very actively courting her."

The devilish grin on his face melted, and your heart stung. "Come on, buddy. I'm not saying what she did was right. Admirably strong-willed, but- oh, boy."

He looked thrice as crestfallen. You gave more ground. "I didn't mean to devalue your- you can have complicated feelings about it, you're allowed to be mad, but.. everything's grayscale. You'll need to know how to compromise to...."

Maxon puppy eyeing you was not beneficial to your health. He leaned forward, and you leaned away.

"Oh my god, Maxon. Okay, technically speaking, both of you did at least one thing wrong, so if you need an objective reason to be frustrated-"

You tried to get onto your tiptoes, but even then you couldn't reach Maxon's face. "Lean down, man."

He leaned down, and you dampened your vocals.

"If you talk to her and the topic of your date arises, listen for how she words things. If she says anything she did wrong or just lists all of the things you or someone else did that swayed her to do it."

"Is that some type of psychology thing?" Maxon queried. You nodded.

"And if she doesn't give a satisfactory answer?"

"You're certified by me to be frustrated without any guilt on your superego." Maxon made a little, epiphanic "oh" noise. "And, depending on the later situation, I might fight her."

Maxon managed to cough and squeal simultaneously. It was a funny, but disconcerting feat. "Please don't."

"I'll fight any of them." You bumped your fists together. "Anybody who does hurts your feelings and doesn't apologize deals with me, no matter how in the wrong you are."

Maxon re-straightened his posture with a squeal. "Oh, god, [F/n], no. If you cater to me like that, you'd decimate everyone here."

"That's the idea," you pounded your fists. "Anyhow, I better let you go. If my memory serves me, you aren't finished making rounds."

"Keep those grenades outside our walls." Maxon sauntered off before you could come up with a good enough comeback. Dang.

You looked over the wash of Selected faces. They had all siphoned off into the categories you had noted in the Women's Room, this time with America sitting by her lonesome and biting her nails.

While you weren't here to make friends, it'd be beneficial for you to be on a good page with some of the Selected. 

You already knew Elise, who was huddled next to Kriss and Natalie. You approached them.

"Hi." Elise was tucked between Natalie's upper arm and torso. It looked awkward, as though a fish had been caught wrong by a hook, but if it was, Elise didn't show it. "You okay?"

"Yeah." You sat down next to Kriss, who was similarly wrapped up like a present in Natalie's arms. "You guys?"

"Better with the medic here!" Natalie chirped, and you felt something shuffle it's way behind your back.

"Uh-?" You looked around, and legs entrapped in the blush of Natalie's morning dress were on either side of you. Kriss and Elise maneuvered accordingly along with their caretaker, and settled down again with a sigh.

This was.. snug. But in a good way. You yourself melted down into Natalie's hold. "Thank you."

"Sure!" Natalie exclaimed. Nice, now you were relieved of your medic duties, which you were about average at; you only know what you needed to know.

Before you could even register the heaviness atop your chest, it was gone. Replaced, even, by a light, feathery warmth.

You hadn't felt this kind of presence in awhile, but like the horripilation-causing alarm all but half an hour ago, it held a certain air. Did Natalie have any siblings?

You stayed there in comfortable silence, Natalie humming and nuzzling your head from time to time.

You had assumed it to be a little over an hour by the time the attack had come to a close. Maxon followed you to your room afterwards to discuss it.

"That's another thing," you continued. "You might want to consider lining the castle perimeter with a mote of sorts. Something electric would be effective."

"Wow." Maxon had slowed himself, matching your tiny steps. "I see you're the type to bring a gun to a knife fight."

"Oh, settle down. I don't mean kill them." You pushed your doors open. "If you hit someone with a high enough current, the muscle contractions would clench the heart and prevent them from falling into ventricular fibrillation. They'd still be knocked unconscious as a plus."

"Wouldn't it hurt?"

You stopped. "Well, that depends on how you look at it. The nerve endings would be seared, so you wouldn't feel the burn, but I guess that isn't very humanitarian, either."

Your room looked exactly how you left it when you left for breakfast—mildly disheveled. However, one thing that was most definitely out of place were a pair of books on your nightstand.

"What on earth?" You approached the countertop, and Maxon trotted behind you.

"Oh, those? Last time we were studying,  
you mentioned them. I thought I'd bring them to you, seeing as it's now too risky for you to be there."

You inspected the mahogany hard covers.  
Mason's Siege; Kaczynski's Technological Slavery and Anti-Tech Revolution; Sakai's Settlers; and an anthology on Juan Posados' philosophies.

What an array of egocentric, bumbling idiots!

"Wow." You put a hand on your hip. "The only thing that's missing is Kropotkin's The Conquest of Bread and you'd have officially framed me for crimes against the state."

Maxon began slicing the air front of him into quadrants. "I'll be honest, as much as I'd like to be impartial during my studies, these were plain nonsensical."

"As much as I'd like to refrain from totalitarian-style controlling your views, I am so very glad you thought so. Did you read Post Scarcity Anarchism afterwards like I suggested? It's a nice breather."

"It really was," Maxon elucidated. "And poking fun at deviants' soliloquies was a pleasant distraction from the matters at hand."

"Which ones? Martial or marital?"

"There's so many of them, [F/n]," Maxon strained, hand on his forehead. "Too much. The estrogen's getting to me. And they all want hour-long outings. I really am trying to view them as individuals, but it's very discombobulating."

"I could provide you with who to approach first?" Your short but insightful observations in the Women's Room and during this morning's ambush would be enough information. "Based on both compatibility and publicity."

"If you have a top 10, I'd be happy to prioritize them," Maxon sighed. "Nobody I've already dealt with, please, and I'll take them all out by at least tomorrow evening."

Oh, that was easy. "Highest to lowest ranking? Marlee Tames, Celeste Newsome, Elise Whisks, Kriss Ambers, Natalie Luca, Janelle Stanton, Tiny Lee, Emmica Brass, Tuesday Keeper, Emily Arnold."

"I lost your thought process by Lady Lee or Brass, but everything else is in perfect alignment with what I had in mind."

"And my personality profiling of the rest is still up for grabs."

Maxon shook his head. "No need. I'll have to take them out anyways, and you surely have better things to do than that."

Ah. You had almost forgotten you were two days away from starting stage two of your stay at the palace. "Better things to do than participate in what I'm here for? Like what? Spar with some guards?"

"Like paint every plain and boring wall in this palace." Maxon nodded to your walls. "I assume you asked your maids for the supplies?"

Oh, right. The mural. "I actually listed wet media as one of my talents, so everything was already in place when I got here. Everything's a work in progress."

"Are the instruments works in progress, too?" Maxon, sounding, disappointed, was fixated on a nearby flute, which lead to the rest of your artistically augmented musical artillery.

The smooth finishes of the provided percussions and woodwinds had been interrupted by simple, gold-leafed line arts of flowers, mandalas, and more expressionistic designs.

You shrunk into yourself. "Sorry if it bothers you? I assumed I could paint them."

"No, it's fine," he reassured you. "This is just... well, you've been here for less than a week, yet my bedroom looks like a guest room in comparison to yours."

You un-shrunk yourself. "I've tried to make it my own. I'd be more than happy to paint your room if that'd satisfy you."

Maxon looked over to you, eyebrows raised. "You're serious?"

You matched his query. "Why wouldn't I be?"

*

"Oh!" Another photo fluttered in front of your face. "Could you add this one?"

Cautiously, you took the picture from Maxon's hands. "What is it?"

"The first picture I ever took!" Maxon's chest took the curvature of a puffin's. "It's the bouquet from my mother and father's vow renewals."

The picture looked like it was taken from a century old Polaroid. Lavenders and white roses dominated the luxuriant foliage; the former flower was a much more abundant addition, whereas the latter was plump and full-cupped and only four or five in numbers.

Thin and modest, the lavenders were deeply and distinctly violet. Not at all as flamboyant as the voluminous roses littering their bases, but willowy and graceful in their own way; each swaths' silhouettes seemed to emanate a rippling, golden aura.

It's partner was plump and full-cupped—likely the closest rendition to a Juliet rose dipped in pearl. Even then, the rose bore an indigo ombré that dusted its center blue. Of course, to complete the palette, there were pieces of peach posies with orange creamsicle hearts.

The perspective was low, and you could see tiny fingertips brushing the bouquet at the bottom. You grinned. "Aww, I can see cute little baby Maxon's hands down here!"

"What?" As sporadically as he shoved it in your face, Maxon retracted the photograph. You watched his analyzing eyes with delight, even more so when he cringed.

"Eugh! Augh! Ugh! Ew! Since when?" Maxon waved the photo like a soiled handkerchief. "My first photo! My favorite photo!" He held the photo so close to his eyes it brushed his nose. "Oh my god, they look so chubby."

"What? Your fingers?" You cooed, snatching the photo from Maxon's hands. "Pft, come on, don't be like that! They're of appropriate width."

"Obviously you haven't seen many infant hands."

"Itty bitty baby hands." You lined your fingertips up with those in the photograph, amazed to see how they still outlined yours. "That's adorable. I'm totally painting those in."

"Don't you dare!"

"Ugh, fine, you killjoy." Pencil in your other hand, you began a light sketch of the photo, nearly metamorphosing from a series of birds. "Do you have any preferred art style?"

"The only art style I've been introduced to is hyperrealism, which I hate, so no."

"I feel some combination of expressionism and impressionism would appeal to you. The angles, the movement, the vibrancy..." you tried to visualize an unadulterated chromaticity against the current drawings—pure, raw primaries and secondaries saturating the softer, sheer colors of flowers and arrows and squirrels made in minute strokes. "Maybe I could make a few paintings on the bottom of the wall for you to pick from?"

"Sure!" You heard a shuffling underneath you. "Here, I have a stupid picture of an apple somewhere in here."

"How stupid can it be if you took a photo of it?" You landed on the floor.

"You underestimate my dullness." You giggled as Maxon tossed another picture your way. "Are you sure you don't want a ladder? The bottom's getting somewhat.." the overlapping sketches spoke for themselves. "..crowded."

"It would be nice, but it's improbable." You stretched. "So I can just jump really high."

"Yeah, I'll try to get you a ladder," Maxon mentioned amidst his rummaging. "Oh, by the way, did I tell you how it went?"

"Tell me how what went?"

"My conversation with America." Well, how did he expect you to focus on the painting now?

"No??" As you sat down by Maxon's wall, shimmying a towel over your dress, you patted the marble next to you. "No??? What's the verdict? Do I need to fight her?"

Maxon was quiet as he traipsed to you. The look in his eyes—or lack thereof—gave you your answer.

You started to stand. "On a completely unrelated note, I have to go."

"No!" Maxon grabbed you by the arm, yanking you back onto the floor. "Don't! Please?"

You wriggled anxiously. "But-!"

"I know, I know!" Given his position, one would think the crown prince was having a conversation with the wall rather than you. "But she's just not that type of person, you know?"

"The type to apologize? Fine. What did she say, at the least?" Maxon hesitated, and you bumped shoulders with him. "Come on, come on, I won't bite, I promise."

And an impish grin forced itself on Maxon's face with each of your probes. "It's more of a question of what she sounded like," Maxon clarified. "I honestly wouldn't have minded if she hadn't indirectly shot down the rest of the Selected during her soliloquy."

"She what?" Your eyes widened. "That's pretty bold coming from the girl whose only here because you're letting her."

"Right?" Maxon said. "I mean, damn, if you want to stay at the palace, at least act like it. Next thing I know she's going to slap a bureaucrat."

"Well, hey," you jeered. "Can't disagree with her there. I might be pitifully anxious to remain in good graces, I'd slap at least one of the royals if I knew my head would remain on my shoulders afterwards."

Maxon was still smiling, but the the way his head hit the wall contradicted the expression. "Yeah."

A silence ensued. You found your eyes drifting from your paintbrush to Maxon's interlocked hands, which were at rest on his lap. His cuffs hit the first knuckle of his thumb.

You set the brush and photo down, placing your hand adjacent to and below his forearms. "Can I?"

No verbal response was delivered, but Maxon's hands separated. Exhaling, he placed a hand in yours, where you peeled back his stiff sleeve. An inflamed print was still pressed into his wrist, but a separate bruise peaked out farther down his arm. You rolled the fabric up his elbow.

Inky, purplish blacks and navy blues encompasses the splotchy epicenter. Faded, nauseating reds and yellows dotted lesser effected areas. Similar to the damage you'd see with a black eye. This one, you surmised, was newer, fresher.

Disgusting.

Probably, you thought. If any advisors so much as grazed Maxon, the prince could handle it. Even if he was frightened, no doubt he'd run to his father. But if it was Clarkson himself...

There was nobody to go to. His mother was kind, but passive, so you'd seen on television. He wouldn't want to involve her, either. His retinue wouldn't care.

"Please don't speak of it to anyone," Maxon said.

You weren't thinking about it. There wasn't anyone to speak of it to. Maxon had figured that out, and now so had you.

Yet, as you brushed your thumbs over the first indentation, feeling how the temperature over the reddened area grew hotter and the skin damper, you felt yourself wanting to. "Why?"

"Because." Maxon's weight fell onto your shoulder. "You've probably already guessed, and I'm fine with you knowing, but I don't want some scandal to arise. You understand, right?"

You pushed your emotions back down. The knowledge that you wouldn't have done anything whether or not he asked you to sat like a stone in your stomach. "I do."

You can't. Don't get full of yourself. You needed to stay here, and you couldn't risk incurring Clarkson's wrath in these crucial, nascent beginnings of your time at the palace. That was it.

"So." A hand cupped the side of your face, and you were met with Maxon's hard, copper eyes. "Can I trust that you won't say anything?"

"It's nice to be trusted." Your hand throbbed. "Not a word."

Cautiously, you uncurled your own fingers to reveal the still visible scrape of the smoke grenade's splint across the inside.

"Well, then we can be red hand buddies," you offered your outstretched to Maxon for inspection. His bronze eyes only dropped to the mark for a moment before redirecting themselves.

"Please," the heir muttered, pulling his legs to his chest. "That's.."

Maxon put his free arm around his knees, minimizing the space he took up. "[F/n], you've gone through so much. More than anyone should. And me? Comparing my problems to yours.."

The hand you were holding jerked away, as if struck, and shot into his hair. "They're foolish. The ramblings of a spoiled, ungrateful prince. They're- they're.." Maxon breathed in. "Nothing."

Your heart shattered. Shit, what were you thinking? You'd let this go on, let Maxon subject himself to this, to stay in the palace? You had to say something.

Wait, no. You resisted the urge to smack yourself upside the head. Shut up. Staying quiet is what you had to do. Maxon wanted you to stay silent, anyways. Why modify your plans when all he did was reinforce them?

Yet you looked at Maxon and felt like you had kicked a puppy.

His hand was in a shriveled position, but you managed to weave your hands underneath his arms and pull him in.

Why was he so insistent on insisting his problems were nothing?

If he idolized your backstory that much, wouldn't it mean anything to him that you acknowledged his struggles? Why didn't his experiences were still valid even though they're different from yours? That even though some people go through far worse things, it doesn't act to cancel out your own problems? Why did he need to be told, anyways? Wasn't he the crown prince? What could you do? What could you say? What would he listen to? And in such an effective, short phrasing so that it wouldn't be lost in a paragraph long explanation?

You maneuvered yourself until you could feel your back against the stone wall. Maxon's trembling worsened, his grip on your dress threatening to tear it at the seams. His short, restrained breathing was deafened by your hair, but audible.

How could you tell him that he matters?

"In my eyes," you finally decided upon. "They're everything."

You weren't sure if you could fit all of it in that sentence. Make it all meaningful without diluting it in a speech he'd have trouble remembering. Hopefully he'd ask you about it, or figure it out himself.

Eventually.

Whether it was from your reed thin words or external circumstance, Maxon crumpled. The only thing he could manage to vocalize were choked hiccups as he fell into your embrace. Besides the sudden warmth that clung to your clothes as he quietly wept into your shoulder, you saw streams of discoloration draining from where his eyes would be. 

You, for now, would politely oblige to Maxon's request. He's your friend, you've decided, and you didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

"Bleugh." Maxon heaved himself off you, and it felt as though a boulder had slid off your chest. "Look at me. This is why the Selected think I'm perverted. Sorry, [N/n]."

Grinning, you opened your arms once more. "Max, I was the one that hugged you. If anyone's a creep here, it's me."

Maxon sniffled, rubbing his eyes. "Good point. But even then, you're tiny and frail, and I don't want to crush you."

"What?" You asked, and Maxon started to, with what little energy he had left, snigger.

Bubbles rose in your chest. Relief. It was miraculous to you how well he was bouncing back. You had to feed the fire."Was crush the word you just used? Like you'd so much as dent me."

"I warn you, [F/n]." Maxon's grip on your waist—you'd forgotten his hands were there the last time you'd seen them—tightened, and he regained his footing. "When I was eight, I picked up my father by his calves."

"Wow," you ogled. "When you were eight? That's so cool, because our anatomy totally doesn't change in the timespan of 11 years."

"Shut up."

"On the topic of strength, do you not recall when I swung you around in the library? That was actually in this decade, unlike your marvelous feat of strength."

"Yeah, for all of two seconds!"

"What, you th-hrk!" Your sentence's was forced to a breathless close as Maxon rose to a sudden attention. "Why?"

"To prove a point." Maxon interlocked his hands behind your knees, indirectly shoving your head onto his shoulder. He whistled. "Wow, how much do you weigh? Five grams?"

The only thing you could do was pound on his shoulder blade and try not to let his cologne's of cinnamon and firewood smell get to your head. "Four, actually. Put me down!"

"Not with that tone."

You took on a cadence similar to the archetypical, enraged elderly woman or man that teenagers mess with. "Put me down!"

Maxon snorted. "Cute. So you think you're a comedian?"

"Ugh." You pushed yourself off his chest, but fell back in a short second. "I thought we already decided I'm going to be your unofficial boss."

"More like my unofficial court jester." Maxon hoisted you up again, this time twirling you around and placing you on his shoulder like a shoulder tassel. "Alright, my small friend, do you think you could manage without a ladder up here?"

You tried not to submit to the displaced vertigo. Notably, the spinning gun racks lining the perimeter were hard to ignore. "Wow. Is this what it's like to be tall?"

"How does it feel?" He probed.

"Like nature didn't intend for me to be up here." Maxon's laugh rocked you back and forth, and the prince's exhaustive photo collection trembled. "I feel powerful."

"And it feels like there's at most a grape on my shoulder, so stay as long as you like," Maxon chirped. "So, what were you talking about with art styles I might like?"

"Oh, right!" You pointed to your pencil, which Maxon bent down and grabbed. "Basically, if you disapprove of realism that much, the closest thing you'll like to it is probably post impressionism or high renaissance."

"I do dislike anything that ends in realism for art. If you wanted to capture something perfectly and as it is, you take a photograph."

"Interesting take. Here's what I've gathered from that: how well do you know your famous artists?"

"Better than most."

"Alright, so Munch, Escher, Monét, Gogh, Dalí-"

"Wait, wait," Maxon chuckled. "I lied. Dumb it down, please."

You flicked Maxon's head. "-Raphael, Donatello, Leonardo da Vinci, and Michelangelo."

"Better."

You weren't sure how long you boxed out your composition after that. Maxon switching you from shoulder to shoulder became your internal telling for the amount of time that had passed.

You were beginning to consider finding some paints walls before you realized how much time he was wasting on you.

"You could totally be knocking girls out right now!" You hissed, kicking your legs. Maxon had an arm slung over your hips, which effectively bolted you to the pads of his suit. "Get out there and take someone on a date!"

"We were having fun!" Maxon talked over you. "We were having fun! A couple of buds, having a great time, making fun of yellow journalism! Come on! Tell me more about William Hearst."

"You can't hold me hostage on your shoulder forever, assh- dimwit!"

"Hm?" Maxon badgered, giving the shoulder you were on a single, egging bounce. "What was that? It sounded like you were going to say something a little more vulgar."

"Don't test me, Schreave," you warned. "I'll muckrake you and your entire family before you can say The History of the Standard Oil Company."

"Listen, listen," Maxon said. "It's far too close to dinner for a full fledged outing. Why bother making a girl feel like a box on my to-do list when I could chat with my platonic ideal for awhile longer?"

"You're the platonic ideal of ridiculous," you buoyed. "But fine. I'll just give you more reading assignments."

"You're such a bookworm." Maxon shook his head. "Yet so spite-filled. You have too much fight stored in you for your size."

"You are being way too puckish for someone whose never picked up a psychology book in his life," you said, brow cocked. "I could end your family's entire bloodline right here."

"But I have picked up a psychology book," Maxon corrected. "You left one out last time in the library and I read the first paragraph. Boom. I'm practically Freud."

You choked on your own spit. "Jesus Christ." You were now fighting tooth and nail to get off of Maxon's shoulder, learning the hard way of his Herculean strength. "If that's true, I'm warning your mother."

"Wait, warn my mother?" Maxon has now bolted you onto his shoulder. "Why? Don't. I have no idea what I just implied. Whose Freud?"

"You really need to actually read a psychology book before going around referencing the big wigs of the field," you explained, stopping your struggle.

"Why?"

"A lot of their work are mixed bags in terms of actual theory and their social darwinist, biological essentialist agendas. We now open a new discussion on the philosophy of our society's traditions and western conservative moral."

"You didn't answer me," Maxon replied. Flawless execution, [F/n].

"Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant, A History of Western Philosophy by Bertrand Russel, Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche, and Metaphysics and Nicomachean Ethics by Aristotle."

"There's only so many times you can avoid my questions by giving me book names that are barely, if anything aren't related to them."

"You know what?" You propped your elbow on Maxon's head. "We should apologize to Gideon for our visceral behavior yesterday evening. I feel bad that he had to witness it."

"I'm still wondering what was so wrong about what I said, but you bring up a fair point." Maxon lifted you off his shoulder like a child would a doll, and your feet finally reconciled with the ground. "I have no idea where he would be at this time, though."

"What does he typically do in the late afternoon?"

Maxon looked off into a distant scenario. "I don't know, taxes?" You snickered. "Father wants to keep most of the younger advisors out of his way, so they're kept tucked away and entertained."

"Very l'état c'est moi of him," you noted.

"We could see if he's in Minerva's lounge." Maxon paused. "The room where you nearly bankrupted the rest of the advisors."

Hell yeah! Gambling! "I have absolutely no quarrels going there." You smoothed your gown. "None at all. Let us make haste."

Huffing, Maxon followed your prepped step out his room. "We will not be playing any games," he clarified. "You'll drain the private treasury."

"Maybe the private treasury deserves to be drained," you offered. "Lord knows for its name it's fortunes don't go into public works."

"So they aren't the biggest philanthropists." Maxon shrugged. "But it's not like they're required to spare us change, anyways. We're thankful for the table scraps."

"Which is why you need to take it from them."

"No!-"


	8. Second Time’s The Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader starts to settle into her daily life, which is just a little bit less predictable than the rest of the Selected’s.

You couldn't find Gideon in time, and dinner was boring. The gambling interlude you managed to get Maxon to promise you before bed wasn't any better, though.

The lounge room after dark wasn't much above a small casino other than the lighting effects.

The room had been overtaken by low-hanging black lights, the room's chandeliers flickering with potassium and copper chloride flames. The glass table had been fractured to a prism of saturated hue, and the lights that found the walls frolicked as if they sourced from a broken disco ball.

Your dress and the advisors' suits reflected the illumination all too well. Everyone glowed turquoise, swirls of brightly colored smoke from the cigars between their teeth surrounding their heads. The gentle, lime light of absinthe in everyone's champagne glasses was bordering on nauseating.

And you could barely see your cards. It seemed others weren't fairing as well. The windows were open, and cold breezes would hit your face, but it did nothing to help the suffocating, perfumed air.

"I'll fold," Guildenstern said.

"Me, too." Maxon set his cards face up, but you couldn't see what he had other than two jacks.

"Raise 5,000." Varga's glowing green eyes glinted. Five rolls of irradiated paper were dropped into the center of the table.

"Call." You accompanied his pile. Your glass hissed as a servant refilled your drink—adding fuel to the dry ice at the bottom.

The participants that night were using cold hard cash. Varga's poker face was one of the most iron clad you'd seen, though—he gave you nothing as you pushed your own assets into the ring.

The two of you flipped your next cards. "Raise 5,000," he furthered.

"Raise 10,000."

"Raise 10,000."

Final betting interval. As you flipped your last hole card, you looked to Varga, whose face was doused in indigo. "So what's your total?"

"I'd guess around 90,000."

"Alright." You dropped more money into the pot. "Raise 200,000."

Varga smoothed back his platinum coiffure. "Raise 90,000."

"380,000 crowns, Varga?" Guildensterrn asked, glancing to Maxon.

"Oh, please." Varga never tore his inebriated gaze off you while he struggled to flip htis cards. "I've counted the cards. Flush, right? Too bad."

The man revealed a royal hand of ace to five. "Full house," he announced, kicking his feet onto the table.

"That is too bad." You laid your own cards down. Varga's narrow face whitened. "I don't have a flush, though."

In your hand was a six of spades, a queen of clubs, a seven of diamonds, and a four of each suit. "Four of a kind, actually."

There was a tense silence in the room before Varga sighed. "Well."

Maxon laughed, waving away fluorescent fuchsia fumes. "How is that possible?"

"Maybe if you stopped drinking you'd be better fit to gamble." Piskurich turned to you. "Really, [L/n], he'd be a real scare for you if he had the decency to stay sober."

"Bite me." Varga watched a server open a small fridge, drumming his fingers along the table. "Sigh. I used to hold my liquor better. What we need to do is get the kid drunk. I want my money back."

"Good luck with that." You brought your new profits close to your chest. "But I think I'll quit while I'm ahead."

"Thank god!" Guildenstern exclaimed, cyan cigarette smog seething through his teeth. "Varga, you too! I'd have a chance at winning something!"

"I still don't." The visual symphony enveloping Maxon marbled him in greens, blues, and purples. His opalescent Majesty placed his aubergine hands on the table and stood up. "And I'm already seeing in kaleidoscope, so I'll be spectating."

Several tables around the four of you had overheard Maxon's resignation and booed soon after. The lights above Maxon flickered electric blue, and he smiled cerulean.

"Come on, I have an early start in the morning." Fixel, from behind him, blew a puff of acid yellow on the back of his head. The prince fanned the mustard puffs creeping fingers off his neck more. It smelled like someone had made it with lemon in mind.

His burnt umber eyes were tinged tangerine when he looked to you with widening eyes.

After putting your winnings on your bill and leaving, Maxon couldn't stop apologizing for everybody's behavior.

You had to admit, the scene was essentially a glow in the dark hot box, but neither of you expected it. Thankfully you'd seen the drugs before—on Fives, Sixes, and Sevens who got near life sentences for carrying them. Hm.

The worst part for Maxon was avoiding drinking and smoking. You were positive you could drink any white trash in there under the table, but you'd never smoked before, and you weren't going to smoke there.

But everybody there besides you and Maxon was at least moderately buzzed, so inhaling the dry ice vapor from your drink and puffing rings every so often impressed most you betted with.

Unlike most of the cooler tones of color the lighting in the lounge bore, the lights outside were pretty warm. Your eyes' adjustments to the aforementioned, dark color scheme (and probably some of the wormwood infusion) only enhanced the warmth.

Maxon hair bore highlights of mahogany and midtones of sangria. His hands interlocked with your own in a dusty blush, and his face carried variations of garnet where he had been windburned by blasts of outside air.

His ruby cheeks and cherry lips joined together in a peppermint frown. Even his voice was velvet.

"You shouldn't have had to do that." Heated, too, you concluded. "I'm sorry that I couldn't help. I could've made something up about the Selected and drinking or something."

"I appreciate the thought, but it's fine." His rosiness subsided. "If I plan to stay here post-Selection and work with them, I might as well get used to their antics. I think keeping up with their substance abuse helped my image, oddly."

Maxon gave you a look. "I'm not sure I agree with that, but how?"

You grinned. "At the end of my stay, they were calling me [L/n] instead of sweetheart."

Just alcohol for thought. You certainly did have a nasty hangover next morning.

"Oh, god." You held your head in your hands, but you knew it wouldn't help. "Somebody kill me."

"What on earth are you rambling about?" Zafira slid your morning gown over your head.

"Did you have a nightmare?" Anima asked, and gasped shortly thereafter. "Oh my gosh! So last night I stepped on a lizard-"

"Hold on. Anima, what kind of correlation is that?" Marca butted in, and Anima began to laugh. "Where did you get that?"

"You didn't let me finish!" She giggled.

"You always do that!" Zafira joined with a smile. "Whenever we're-"

Anima squealed and, as your head poked out of the fabric, slapped a hand over Zafira's mouth. "Oh my gosh, stop! Milady's right there!"

"Wait, I want to hear," you said, grinning, and smoothed your dress. "What are you always doing?"

Anima rolled her eyes. "Well, according to them, whenever I talk I always start off on really weird-"

"-Statements about how you step on lizards?" You proposed. "You're always stepping on lizards?"

"No!" Anima went tomato red and waved her hands so frantically she knocked over a perfume bottle while Zafira and Marca hooted. "No! I don't step on lizards!"

"You hit the nail right on the head," Marca said. "Constantly. Wherever she goes, she's just searching for lizards to squish."

"Dude!"

"We'll be talking, to her and she'll get all antsy, and we'll say "Anima, what's wrong?" And she'll be like "Oh my gosh, guys, I haven't stepped on a lizard in, like, three minutes."

"Oh my gosh!" Anima slapped Marca's arm. "Shut up!"

And your days would start like this.

You decided to stick to a schedule. Breakfast started at 8:30 and ended at 10:00. You conversed with the girls in the Women's Room and took your mandatory history and etiquette classes until two, and you would then return to your room and resume your planning and laze around with your maids.

Maxon would stop by shortly before dinner to update you on everything from rebel attacks to how horrifically his date with Marlee Tames or Janelle Stanton went, and then abscond to dinner. You would follow, but not in a fashion where the Selected would think you were on a date. At night, you would rack up more money.

Saturdays were and would be different, as the press came for interviews. You made sure to market yourself solidly whenever there were cameras involved; not as queen material, but as subtly businesslike.

Plus, when Captain Markson and King Clarkson finally approached you, it wasn't earth-shattering.

They allowed you to skip etiquette and history classes, so you only had to trim your time in the Women's Room 12:00. From now on, you trained the guards from then to 2:30.

It was a mess, you'll be truthful.

The lack of organization was surprising, sure, but it stemmed from a lack of teamwork.

After a flurry of cameras got hundreds of different angles of you wiping the floor with the entire battalion sans Markson, you immediately put them through the funnest of team building activities you could think of.

You're being serious. And it was almost too hectic to be fun.

You had them stand in a circle, hands linked, and repeat a direction you barked at the center while stepping in said direction. Everything was fun and games until you told them that when you said "left" to say "right" but still take a step to the left. Or when you said "backward" to say "backward" but step forward.

"Forwards!" You'd call.

"Uhh?" All of the guards would answer, see-sawing between their two options. You saw a lanky ravenet slide to the right, bumping his neighbor's shoulder. That almost caused a fight.

Still, you had them do it until they were synchronized. Even if they were taking orders incorrectly. Which they were.

Human knots. Mine fields and scavenger hunts with discarded weaponry and little observations you'd made in sparring space. Egg drops with gloves.

By the time you were through with them, the lot of them were making plans after lunch. Two had started going out.

Really, the dynamic was comparable to a group of high schoolers with their young, hip, relatable teacher. They were comfortable with you, but compliant.

But you were tired.

"God." You pressed Crystallizing Public Opinion's pages to your face. "Why is it so hard to maintain myself here?"

"Because you're overexerting yourself." Maxon snapped In Praise of Folly close. "Your so caught up in this hellish workload you've willfully put on yourself that you haven't any time to relax."

"I'm relaxing right now," you argued.

"No, you're not." Maxon set his book on his chest, looking up at you with a disappointed glare from your lap. "I haven't heard you flip a page for a full ten minutes."

"I-"

"You're worried about the Report."

Dammit. "I'm worried about the Report." You curled your fingers, feeling the silk sheets of Maxon's bed between each digit. The fabric was usually soothing, but not soothing enough.

"It's a good six days away. Remember when you told me you can be a real brat when you're angry?" Maxon asked. "Do yourself a favor and be a brat for a quick minute. You're way too careful with how you're viewed."

"But if I want to stay here, I need to make sure at least the majority of them like me," you insisted.

"Oh my-" the blond shook his head. "[N/n], we've discussed this ad nauseam. My father would have to pry you from my cold, dead hands before you're eliminated."

"I still don't want to be a burden."

"What's with all this burden talk?" Maxon shifted up your legs, head pressed firmly against your stomach. "Like I've said, you don't have to prove anything to anyone here.

"Plus, you have my dad's retinue wrapped around your finger," Maxon said. "He wouldn't be able to get rid of you if you stabbed a guard with a fork."

Embarrassingly enough, you laughed at that. "I'll keep that in mind, thanks. But that's not the main reason I'm nervous."

"Oh?" Maxon's brows waggled. "Then why are you nervous? You're barely nervous. I need to take notes."

"You're the worst, but I'm going to try and unveil something I've been working on, and the palace staff are a tough crowd."

"What?"

"It's-" you paused. "What time is it?"

"I'm not sure?" Maxon glanced at his mural. "The paint still looks too wet to layer anything on."

"No, I mean-" you searched for a clock. "Don't you have a photo shoot today?"

Maxon sat up.

You got to your room just in time to get an earful from your maids before getting dressed up.

"I look like a stick next to you," Elise complained, patting her hips.

"A very pretty stick," Natalie chittered, to which you and Kriss giggled.

"It seems like an advantage until the saber at his side impales me." You nodded to the figure amidst his shoot with Celeste. Well, what you could see of him, of course. The intense glitter of his suit made looking his way equivocal to staring at the sun for too long.

"You should take it from him!" Kriss bounced on her heels, grabbing fistfuls of her dress only to let it fall before it could gain wrinkle. "Have a photo or two of a mock duel! That'd look so cool!"

"Oh, god." Elise shook her head, smiling. "Imagine having that on the front page of a magazine."

"Right?"

"You'll be on the front cover of a few magazines pretty soon, Kriss!" Natalie announced, squeezing the girl's shoulder.

Kriss shoved Natalie as femininely as one could in front of the cameras. "Ack! Stop it!" You'd never seen Kriss this affected, and it was very entertaining.

"Huh?" You were looking between Natalie and the accused faster than light. "Why? Is there a specific reason, or just because she's amazing?"

"It's really not that big of a deal," Kriss started.

"Her birthday's in seven weeks!" Natalie gushed.

"Nat, shush!"

"September 23rd!"

"Really?" You asked, shooting Kriss a faux glare. "And you kept for mouth shut for this long? Ugh. Now I'll have to plan a big and extravagant present in less than two months."

"Right?" Elise tutted while Kriss shook her head. "Not cool, Kriss."

"You don't have to do anything." Natalie handed you all sweets, and Kriss ate hers whilst talking. "I've already been promised hardcovers of my favorite books by Maxon, so I'm a happy camper."

Oh? "What're your favorite books?"

"Oh, just some classics. War and Peace, Pride and Prejudice, whatever."

"Oh," you said. "You meant novels."

Kriss' head tilted, an impish smile donning her face. "What do you mean? Do you read, too?"

"Yes, but not novels," you admitted.

"Really? Why's that?"

You scratched the back of your neck. "Well, I don't know. You can't really learn anything from them, right? They're just sugar pills for your brain. I'd rather read something with more nutrition."

"You're serious?" Maybe your metaphor was off target.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Kriss sighed a put a hand on your shoulder.

"Don't worry, [F/n]. I'll save you from yourself. Your poor, pedantic self."

"Uh, what?"

"When I get my books, I'm dragging you to my room."

"Lady [F/n]?" You heard someone behind you say. You turned, and a photographer was waving you over. Looking over to Maxon, who was still lit up like a Christmas tree, you noted his sagging shoulders.

Before you could even ask, Maxon spilled between his teeth as the two of you smiled. "I was just informed of a rebel attack in Midston. A dozen people were killed, and some farmland was destroyed."

You shuddered. "A dozen?"

"I should've pushed abandoning the town." A hard edge was in his tone, but you could hear the quivers of his voice. "I can't believe I let this happen."

"It's not your fault your father's military inadequacy cannot be swayed by you or his advisors." Screw this dudes father, honestly. "You didn't "let" this happen—your father did."

Maxon didn't sound reassured. "I don't know."

"Think, Maxon." You moved to the lounge, where a tiny setup had been made for more action-ish photos. "Even if you continued to pressure your father on evacuating those towns, would he ever had listened? Why beat yourself up over a task that could very well have been impossible?"

Maxon rearranged a chessboard on the table in front of you, smiling, but with twitching fingers. "Yeah, I don't think your or my own lectures are getting through to me.

"I've tried walking through it objectively, but even then.." Maxon looked away from the camera, an afterimage of a crestfallen expression on his face. "Maybe I could've done something in another way. Just- I don't know, [F/n]. What am I doing wrong? What can I do?"

"I suppose you could ask the ministers," you suggested with misplaced cheer. When Maxon looked at you with wide eyes, you flattened your pitch. "Oh, wait, they don't know how to get through to him, either."

Maxon half grinned and looked back to the camera. "You're still talking about my father, you know."

"Well, your father's a brick wall." Maxon failed to suppress his incoming onslaught of chuckles. "If a bunch of well-regarded government officials he pays for advice from can't convince him to do anything, don't expect yourself to."

"Alright, alright." Maxon raised his hands up in surrender. "You got me. Perhaps this isn't entirely my fault-"

"Crazy, I know."

"-Could you do me a favor, though?"

"Shoot."

"I want to divide and conquer. Look more into the northerners for me." Maxon's eyes narrowed. "Just because they aren't as violent as the south doesn't mean they can't turn into anymore of a threat."

The idea of intel gathering made your heart flutter. "You got it."

"Oh!" You heard the photographer utter. "Aren't you the sword girl?"

"The sword girl?" You echoed, tearing your eyes from Maxon to the eager cameraman.

"You are! Say..." the photographer's eyes dropped to something near you or Maxon's waist. "Why don't you take his saber? Just for a couple of action photos."

For a short moment, you wildly skimmed the crowd of girls for Natalie's face. Maxon laughed. "Oh, dear."

"I don't see why not!!" You said, twisting out of your reserved stature, grabbing the sword's handle, and sliding it out of its bedazzled sheath.

"You're excited," Maxon might've said. You were too busy admiring the blade's intricacies.

There were golden, thorn-ridden vines etched into the twirling grip and knuckle bow, ending in a tulip-shaped pommel. The rain guard marvelously mimicked a flower in bloom, and metallic paints at base of the blade detailed tulips and roses floating about, petals scattered around them.

You traced the edge of the cupped hilt with your finger. "Isn't this a sight for sore eyes?"

As you lifted the multicolored blade to the light, it's outline, dotted by smoky quartz and amethyst, glimmered borderline hypnotically. You heard Maxon chuckle.

In a single, fluid motion, you had your non-wielding hand tucked behind your back and the other directing the sword's blade just under Maxon's chin.

Maxon squeaked along with the photographer, though for very different reasons. "Hold that!" She hid her eye behind the camera.

"Sure thing." The knuckle bow pressed to your cheek, you pretended to brush the bottom of Maxon's jaw with the edge of the blade, very pleased with his dreadful expression.

"Your Majesty, raise your chin a bit."

"Yeah, your Majesty." You were a hair away from tapping his cheek with the sword's tip. "Raise your chin."

"This is the absolute worst photo shoot I've ever done," he groaned.

Besides Maxon's complaints, the remainder of the shoot was more relaxed. You fed Maxon a bunch of ridiculous editorials about him, one of which made him fall out his seat. More anticlimactically than one would think with that phrasing—it was just a slip when he was searching for leverage—but still a fall.

At another point during conversation, after several warnings, you exclaimed your abhorrence for a very classist comment Maxon didn't make, but certainly acted like he did. The photographer gave Maxon a look so judgmental even you'd feel bad, and he spent the next two or so minutes poking your sides until you told him what he said as the color continually drained from his face.

He nearly strangled you when you told him it was nothing.

The photographer had to pull you away right after you, playing checkers with Maxon with the chess set, quintuple jumped a trio of Maxon's kings and a duo of regulars.

"That's not a thing you can do in checkers!" Maxon argued.

"Your Maj-"

"Have you ever played checkers with somebody who actually knows how to play checkers?"

"Lady-"

You and Maxon turned to face the photographer, who immediately froze. It was obvious to all three of you she was supposed to be the tiebreaker.

"Uh," the photographer finally gulped. "I'm pretty sure Lady [F/n] can make multiple jumps per turn."

Whereas you jumped up, Maxon slid back into his seat.

"Did you really just take her side over mine?" He asked.

"At least her head is in the right place," you countered.

"It'll be in the guillotine soon." By the looks of it, the photographer took that statement seriously.

"That's one of many things you should never say near a camera." You curtsied and left. Your original plan of rushing over to Kriss and cursing her for jinxing was still in action, but your mind was most definitely elsewhere.

Time to get all acquainted with the northerners.

And that you did.

"Last thing." You straightened your paperwork. "What do you know about the north?"

Officer Avery was the fourth guard you've interviewed to stare at you for longer than four seconds after that query.

The only people in the knighthood who had clearance for postmortem information on rebel attacks, ergo the categorization of them, are Markson and Tanner. You checked. By now, any guard who genuinely didn't know anything would've asked you for clarification.

Rather, Avery's eyes darted to his hand, where a pewter ring on his thumb glittered in the open light. You noted the accent stones in the band. Tiny and star shaped.

"Yeah," Avery started. "Sorry, but did I mishear you? The north? Like, people that live up north, or is there some new lingo I don't know about?"

You shrugged. "That's basically it. Most of you guys are somewhere down south. There's northern and southern traditional drills. You were taught southern technique during training, but I prefer northern."

"Oh." His arms had gone shrunk against his body from their original widespread and space-taking positions.

"So, if any of you know anybody from the north, better yet with previous military experience, get them to drill the others whenever I'm absent."

You glanced at the shorthand between the margins of your doodles. Pre-WWIV USA? Still docile?

You needed to bring this to Maxon's attention.

Unfortunately for you, after you taught the guards how to make Greek fire, you had to stop by the Women's Room for your self-mandated hours of socialization.

As soon as you opened the double doors, the commotion hit like a tsunami.

"She must have done something terrible," Amy insisted.

"That's not what she made it sound like," Kriss said.

Tuesday pulled on Kriss' arm. "What did she say again?"

Huh? Oh. You recalled Janelle's absence at breakfast this morning.

Honestly? You felt like you let Maxon down somehow. One of your top picks for him, and she's the first to be eliminated for causes unrelated to rule violation.

Natalie was already pulling you to Kriss' side when as recounted her story, so the two of you were uncomfortably squished shoulder-to-shoulder with her as the remaining Selected extrapolated.

"That was her second date with Maxon," Bariel pointed out. "She's the only one who got two."

"No, she isn't," America mumbled. Call that a Freudian slip.

"When she came back, she was crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she said she was leaving, that Maxon had told her to go. I gave her a hug because she was so upset and asked her what happened. She said she couldn't tell me about it. I don't understand that. Maybe we're not allowed to talk about why we're eliminated?"

"That wasn't in the rules, was it?" Tuesday asked.

"No one said anything to me about it," Amy replied, and several others shook their heads in confirmation.

"But what did she say then?" Celeste urged.

Kriss sighed again. "She said that I'd better be careful of what I say. Then she pulled away and slammed the door."

"She must have insulted him," Elayna said.

"Well, if that's why she left, then it isn't fair, since Maxon said that someone in this room insulted him the first time they met."

You could feel the paranoia riding off America in waves.

"Maybe she said something about the country? Like the policies or something?" Marlee blurted.

That struck you as odd. Since when did Marlee ever contribute to debate?

You looked over to the blonde. She held a defensive posture and had positioned herself in front of America.

Ohh. Okay. Should you start crushing on Marlee's acute observational skills, or did America tell her?

Bariel sucked her teeth and looked around the room. "Please. How boring must that date have been for them to start talking policy? Has anyone in here actually talked to Maxon about anything related to running the country?"

You abstained from speaking honestly.

"Well." Elise jutted out a hip and shot a fiery glare at Celeste. "[F/n] talked to him about foreign policy during the photo shoot, so.."

You get that Elise wanted to prove a point, but if anything, that was just more collateral for Bariel as to why Maxon isn't interested in a philosopher queen.

Everyone faced you like iron atoms in a magnetic field. Kriss squeezed your hand, which brought a feathery warmth to your chest and enough courage to reply.

"I-"

"And that's why he hasn't asked to see you since the first day," Bariel remarked. A handful of girls in the room laughed, but it died down quickly. "Maxon's not looking for a coworker, he's looking for a wife."

Yeah, sure. You tried not to laugh along with them. That's the plan, and it's much more secure than a public domain marriage.

"Don't you think you're underestimating him?" Kriss objected. "Don't you think Maxon wants someone with ideas and opinions?"

Celeste threw her head back and laughed. "Maxon can run the country just fine. He's trained for it. Besides, he has teams of people to help him make decisions, so why would he want someone else trying to tell him what to do? If I were you, I'd start learning how to be quiet. At least until he marries you."

Bariel sidled up beside Celeste. "Which he won't."

"Exactly," Celeste said with a smile. "Why would Maxon bother with some brainiac Three when he could have a Two?"

Yeah, no. You gripped Kriss' arm. "Please. At least the size of her wallet isn't dependent on whether or not Maxon finds her agreeable."

Owlishly, Celeste's head rolled back to you. "Excuse me?"

"You're a high fashion model, am I wrong?" Owlishly, the color on Celeste's skin had fled, leaving only pasty white. "And, what, 19? I'd give you another six years with an ensured paycheck, at best."

"Mail, ladies!" Silvia called.

And the crowd dispersed. Seeing as you had an outstanding amount of zero letters, you took this time to slip out of the Women's Room and locate Maxon. You'd only make everyone feel awkward and somber in there.

Your first guess as to his whereabouts—the Mars hall—proved true. He sat on the balcony, by his lonesome, though there were no guards there besides Woodwork, who was practicing what looked to be some kind of eskrima.

As you passed, he stopped to come to a stilted, lugubrious attention, which you gently eased.

What's up with him? He's never been less eager than an otter. All of your instinctive hypotheses were put on the back burner as you advanced towards Maxon and his periwinkle parasol.

"What's this?" Maxon asked as you dropped your papers in his lap. Your innocently worded abstract lay atop the stack.

"The culmination of my sleuthing." You sat down beside him. "Now, I don't want you to freak out before you read it, so let me just say one thing."

Maxon was already thumbing through the papers.

"I don't think they're dangerous," you explained anyways. "From what I've gleaned from my interviews of possible suspects, they're supporters of the monarchy. The only radical thing about them is their resentment for the caste system and how they want elections for government officials."

"Possible suspects?"

"Go to page three." You peered over Maxon's shoulder. "I scrounged through some records and composited the memorandums and autopsies of every northern rebel the castle has encountered and found some identifiers between their vague descriptions.

"They all have some type of tattoo or personal belonging with a star on it. Specifically, probably Polaris—one of them had the Little Dipper tattooed on their right temple and it's the only noteworthy star in that constellation.

"I'll give it to you point blank," you said. "At least three of the knights in the king and queen's guard have rings or piercings related to stars. And when I primed them on the northern rebellion, they all either looked to or covered said stars before very badly lying to my face."

Maxon looked pale. "Once again, though, when I got them comfortable and asked about the monarchy, I could tell they were being truthful when they said they supported you."

"How?"

"Pitch." Maxon looked at you, jaw agape. You shrugged.

"What?"

You backpedaled. "Well, kind of. More like stress."

"..What?" He sounded even more horrified.

"The FM frequencies of our voices shift when lying due to muscle tension. I find it similar to detecting subtle sarcasm. Combined with statement analysis and nonverbal cues..."

The prince still looked aghast. "My father taught me." Curtly, you cut off the run down in its tracks.

All this explaining only for him to close his mouth and shake his head. "Then why are they doing this?" He mumbled.

"I'm still not sure. But I have records showing the books they've stolen, and it's only ever things related to the United States before WWIII or WWIV. Democratic socialism is very attractive to them."

"There are guards," Maxon said. "In my mother and father's squadron, that could be northern rebels?"

"Potentially." You sat down in a lounge chair adjacent to his own. "What do you want to do about them?"

Maxon set the papers down and put his head in his hands. "Give me the names."

"Joseph Avery and David Charles." Maxon nodded.

The blond then set the papers down and massaged the back of his neck. "God. How did we not notice that?"

"My best guess is from lack of collaboration between guards and higher ups. Everybody had a piece of the puzzle, but- you good?" A quick, strained laugh flew from Maxon's lungs.

"As good as I can be," he said, grabbing the crown of his head and cracking his neck.

You stood up. "We've discussed this."

"Discussed what?" Maxon skittered to sit upright against his chair, bending over the back of it as a symphony of collapsing joints erupted from his spine.

"Jesus!"

"I'll stop, I'll stop. Sit down, madame president, I'm making moves, too." Maxon's patted the armchair beside him. "Remember when you suggested to me we make a more of sorts around the castle?"

You slammed back into your seat. "A mine field?"

"No."

"An alligator mote?"

"Crocodiles, actually." Maxon shot you a look when your enthusiasm shone through. "No! You're ridiculous."

"Ugh." You slid down in your chair. "And you're timid. What's your proposed line of defense, then?"

"After reteaching myself chemistry, I've looked into some aerosolizable anesthetics that could work as incapacitating agents."

Hey, that's actually pretty neat. You sat up. "Not bad, Maxon! Like what?"

"Mainly fentanyl derivatives," Maxon explained while digging in his pockets. "I don't have an essay or anything, but I have this." He pulled out a triangularly folded, loose leaf sheet of paper. "Let's see..."

Maxon took one look and laughed, reading his original script as if inspecting a tarnished fork. "At first, I didn't want to intoxicate anybody if I could avoid it and stuck to friendly, laughing gas type things, but then I remembered they're trying to kill my family."

"That's fair."

"So, I like halothane, methyl propyl ether, methoxyflurane, and 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate, but my favorite was this: 3-methyl fentanyl." Maxon held the paper between the two of you.

The drug's name was underlined numerous times. And in cursive. You bit back a snicker.

"It's very volatile. You can dissolve it into other inhalational fentanyl analogues like carfentanil or remifentanil and make a mist. It's the ultimate sleeping gas."

"And you could have a sprinkler type system running underground around the castle walls, right?"

"I was thinking about installing some in the grand foyers, too. Here- hrk-!" Maxon tried to stand, but stumbled. "Uh, a moment, if you will."

He's in pain? Your eyes dropped to his abdomen, which his hand had shielded. Why didn't you notice? You rose. "Can you walk?"

By the time Maxon got to his feet, you were more than alarmed. His shoulders were shaking, and you could hear him hiccup more than breathe. "Urgh.. actually, uh, do you think you could, um."

Prismatic tears crinkled in the corners of Maxon's eyes, and you decided that was enough. "Do you.."

"Alright." Wringing up your sleeves, you grabbed Maxon and scooped him up bridal style.

Maxon squeaked.

"To Dr. Ashlar's we go. Hey." To your flummox, upon being lifted off the ground and likely relieved of the pain of walking, Maxon was acting very ungrateful. You forced Maxon's squirming arm you had slung around your neck down to his side. "What the big idea?"

"No. Not happening." Maxon continued his ruthless assault on your upper body. "No. Nope. Let me down. Bad for my image."

"So? There's no reporters around."

"Because this is embarrassing." Maxon tried and failed to bat your face away from him. "And as my future minister president, it would behoove you to listen to me."

"As your current friend, I can't have you go down two flights of stairs when it took you three minutes to stand."

"As a current crown prince, I'll have you demoted to an Eight."

"Oh, no, anything but one caste below from where I was originally."

"Please take me to my room instead," Maxon pleaded as he gripped your dress. "Please? I've already visited that damned place twice this week."

You looked around. Woodwork was gone. You sighed.

"Fine."


	9. Preparations, But For What?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader experiences another heart-to-heart with the prince, but this time it’s worse.

"How did you even get up the stairs?"

"Willpower." You almost laughed, but he seemed serious. "Gideon asked to speak with me yesterday after his meeting. We usually go there to talk. I didn't want to act out of the ordinary."

"Why is your medicine cabinet filled with both pharmaceuticals and..." essential oils? Aromatherapy diffusers? Herbs? You rummaged through the materials.

"After awhile, Ashlar refused to keep giving me my own kits. Don't know why, but he looked angry. So I did some reading and gathered what I could.

"Of course, I could really only get my hands on more alternative, homeopathic stuff." Once you had piled everything you could into your arms, you returned to Maxon's bed. "And I have trouble using them. Don't you want to deal with the chemise first? It'll stain."

The rushing water coming from Maxon's bathroom was gentle. The bath running a slight pink made you sick. "That's a joke, right? You're top priority. Turn around."

Maxon muttered to himself like a reprimanded child and faced his lacerated back to you.

As if someone had torn the skin off, six strips of ripped skin were carved out of his shoulder and dragged down to the waist.

Nothing was said. In the silence, you grabbed a washcloth, soap, water, and sanitizer, and began applying some rubbing alcohol.

After rummaging around in your bag for a hot minute, you iced each wound.

"They're bad, but it doesn't look like you'll need stitches," you said, massaging antiseptic lotion into the slashes. "I didn't see any bandages in your kits."

"I decided awhile ago that I'd honestly be wasting them." You dabbed antibiotic cream onto Maxon's back, now gritting your teeth.

"That's dumb." Typically, you wouldn't have bothered the bruises. These, though, were horrifically black and blue. It was as though an artery had ruptured underneath the skin rather than capillaries.

You grazed your finger, tentatively, against one. Even at such light contact, Maxon flinched.

"If it's another injury, leave it," he said. "I know they don't look pretty, but they'll heal. I don't have any medicine for anything other than cuts, anyways."

You looked at the jars of essences and gels. "Yes you do."

Aloe vera, black and green tea infusions, comfrey root, pineapple and kale juice, arnica, and vitamin K and C ointments. That'll do.

Mashing the ingredients into a lather in your hands, you spread the viscous concoction onto every bruise you saw.

"Uh," Maxon said. "What are you doing?"

"You have some alternative, homeopathic materials here." Dock leaves could dress the wounds in lieu of real wrap, and you think you saw some largish butterfly closures in the back of the cabinet. "Might as well use them."

Rosemary, lavender, carrier, and frankincense oil never hurt anybody, but they're rumored to have therapeutic properties and placebos.

"I'm sorry."

You raised a brow. "Why?"

"I acted pathetic in the training grounds." You heard the gruffness in Maxon's voice intensify. "Even now you have to baby me and all my stupid scars."

"Scars aren't stupid."

"They are when a One has them while a Seven doesn't, don't you think?"

..It was troubling taking your arms out of your sleeves, but afterwards peeling your dress down to your waist was a breeze. "Turn around," you directed.

Maxon looked over his shoulder and immediately turned away. "Christ!"

"Oh, come on," you scowled, feeling the streams of pinched skin wrap around your stomach. "They aren't that bad!"

"They aren't the problem!"

"Get over yourself, I have a sports bra on!" You sneered, massaging your cheeks.

"I've still never seen a woman so-" Maxon was covering both of his eyes. "So not c-c-c-clothed!" 

"You've been in front of me shirtless for the past half hour and I haven't said anything unprofessional, I deserve the same courtesy!"

"Agh! Fine!" Maxon whirled around again, covering his eyes. The look on his face comparable to a toddler prepping himself to get a shot, but subsided when he finally took a look. "Well, I guess it was rude of me to assume. Have your maids said anything?"

"If they've seen anything, they haven't brought it up." You traced some of the etchings and dents wrapping around your midriff, having long acquainted with them.

"But you got those when you were.. oh, I don't know." Maxon turned around and rested his elbows on his knees. "Fighting off gangsters or- or.. I don't know, something less undignified."

"This isn't a competition." Your eyes befell a certain, faded mark. "Pain is relative.

"Plus, more of these are byproducts of me trying to befriend street cats than shows of valor." You gestured to the remnants of a cat scratch. Maxon snorted. "I'm being serious. Have you ever gotten clawed by one of those things? It leaves the skin all raised like this."

"I'll be honest." Maxon pointed to a lighter stitch of skin on his upper arm. "I got a decent amount of these from falling down each and every staircase here."

You tapped a similar scar on underneath your ribs. "Looks like we've both had bad encounters with excessive flights of stairs."

"I've been trying to get everybody on board with installing elevators, but nobody wants to redo the wiring in the walls!" Maxon insisted as he searched his far less scar-ridden stomach, and brightened at the ghost of an incision on his abdomen. "Oh, these two are actually from my appendectomy."

"You had appendicitis? Twice?"

"Yep. Little known fact, I had two appendices!" Maxon raised two fingers, let you believe him for a short minute, and laughed. "No! One is from a botched laparoscopic procedure and the other from open surgery. I haven't told you? During a trip to Swendway a couple of years ago.."

The two of you bounced wacky, zany scar stories off of one another for awhile as you dealt with his shirt. But there was still a problem at hand.

"How often has this happened?"

"More as of late." Maxon laid stomach down on his bed. "And more as of late I've been fantasizing of the climatic and panache-filled moment I'll finally stand up to him. Every quixotic detail down to how I'll part my hair.

"But whenever the time comes, I shrivel. Even those times where I manage to get something in, it doesn't feel like I've done anything. Anything good, at least. I'm hoping the time comes where I'm no longer trembling for words whenever he's angry comes soon," Maxon sighed. "My passiveness under his scrutiny is part of the reason nobody thinks I've grown enough to rule.

"But it's not like I can approach my advisors and say "Hey, the real reason I roll over like a dog for my dad isn't because I'm an overdependent fool, but because I'm scared he'll-"

Maxon stopped to massage his adam's apple. "Wow. My throat really hurts. Thanks for listening, but I could use a lozenge or two."

"Oh, I got it." You were already shaking a spray bottle filled with sage, echinacea, lidocaine, and other oral antiseptics/analgesics.

"You seem to know your way around herbs," Maxon mused as you tossed him the bottle. "Oh, goodness, this looks utterly scrumptious."

"I'm not a shaman or anything, but I can deal." You pulled out bundles of ginger root, peppermint, and chamomile tea leaves. "And it's not like you're supposed to drink it. Now, riddle me this: smoothies or milkshakes?"

"Milkshakes!" You hid yourself in your hunch over Maxon's nightstand and mixed together camphor, menthol, petroleum jelly, and thymol in a makeshift mortar and pestle.

"I was hoping you wouldn't choose that. The closest thing to a milkshake I could make here would be cinnamon almond milk."

Maxon groaned. "Then why did you even give me the option of something sweet?" He craned his neck to your working station. "What are you putting in that?"

"Right now? Eucalyptus, cedar leaf, nutmeg, bergamot, and turpentine oil." Once this cream was finished, you scooped up a generous glob of it with your fingers and swiped it below Maxon's nose. "To clear your airways."

"Okay, this is getting weird."

"Anyways, you say that like smoothies aren't sweet." You bent down to grab some containers that had found a home on the floor. "A honey banana one would help with the healing process."

The perplex on Maxon's face faded. "Really? Do you have some?"

"Nothing pre-made, so unless there's a blender around here, no."

The heir leaned against the back of his bed. "Why do you keep on giving me false hope that have something edible for me?"

"Okay, it was a stretch, but I was planning on using this as a segway into how I have marshmallow and licorice root infusion. Want to try?"

"No thanks."

"How about lemon saltwater?"

"I'll pass."

"Apple cider vinegar or coconut oil?"

"Negatory."

"Hard candy, popsicles?"

"Ooh, really?"

"No."

Maxon threw a pillow at you.

"Hey!" You objected.

"You're so mean!" Maxon whined. "Leading me on like this!"

You sent the pillow careening towards Maxon, which produced a satisfying smack across his face. "It's not my fault you'll only accept medicine by gummy vitamin!"

Though you couldn't see it, as his arm was tucked behind his back, you were pretty sure Maxon was pointing to his injuries. "You can't hit me! I'm crippled!"

"You could have a perforated lung and I still wouldn't hesitate to drop kick you!"

"Argh!" The pillow was sent your way again. "You're the worst shaman ever!"

"That's it." You grabbed the pillow and stood up from your crouch amongst the various medicines and herbs. "You've forced my hand."

A squeak not unlike the one Maxon had sputtered when you picked him up sprung from his lips. "Wait, no." Taking the second pillow on his bed, the prince began to dig himself a shelter out of his covers. "I'm starting to regret this."

"You poked the bear." You planted a knee on the bed. The impression it's weight produced seemed to send Maxon into lockdown mode.

"Please give me some time to prepare." The pace of his burrowing quickened. "I'm not good with military strategy. You know this. Cut me some slack."

Watching Maxon squirm brought about a sonorous, maniacal laugh from deep within your chest. "Just another weakness of yours to exploit."

"My god, I'm just going to run away." Maxon shrunk beneath the covers. "This can't be my kismet. It's too banal."

Your laughter grew even more sinister. And legitimate. "Absquatulation is futile. Don't worry, death by asphyxiation isn't that hoary."

"As my minister president-"

There was a knock on the door.

You and Maxon jumped a good two feet into the air.

"Just a moment!" Maxon sang as the two of you stuffed everything and anything related to his injuries into his drawers and underneath his bed.

As his drying shirt was still in the bathroom, Maxon opted to grab his double-breasted coat and button it all the way up. You had just managed to get your hand through your last sleeve as Maxon opened his doors.

Thankfully, the person who walked in bore a familiar face.

"Maxon," Gideon said. "I thought we were meeting in the training grounds?"

"Ah." Maxon glanced at you. "Sorry, I must've forgot."

Gideon eyed the two of you, hands on his hips. "I'd appreciate it if you all clued me in on your conspiracies from time to time."

You were about to cover for Maxon when Gideon turned to the prince. "While it's not up to senior approval, your father's favorites loved the idea of bringing the debates into the pre-Elite phase."

Maxon rolled his eyes. "I've made my choice, Gideon. We aren't mixing and matching with the timeline."

"Fine." Gideon narrowed his eyes before turning to you with a smile. "Speaking of favorites..."

You rose a brow. "Congratulations, [F/n]. I think you've perfected your dynamic with the palace advisors. They won't shut up about you."

"Really?" You asked hopefully.

"Really?" Maxon asked, voice a bit more sour than yours.

Gideon nodded. "Indeed. Lots of respect given your intellectual and physical strength, but find you a healthy amount of endearing given your position. You're like a pretty pet that everybody has a weirdly placed respect for."

You covered your smile with a hand. "You're serious? That's fantastic!"

"What?" Maxon piped up. "Why's that fantastic? You're smarter than all of those dunces combined, don't you deserve more than being some- some pet?"

"I'm not sure if I'm smarter than all of them, but-"

"You are!"

"-But I'll get more than a secretary of honor sticker soon. For now, I'll play the Selection game, and I can't go full commando yet."

Maxon crossed his arms. "Like I've said, you don't have to appeal to the Selection."

"That's what everybody's worried about," you quipped. "Don't worry, though. It'll be official when I'm the minister president."

"You two seemed to have made up," Gideon commented.

You perked up. "We were actually trying to find you yesterday and apologize for our immaturity. My immaturity, of course. Maxon didn't do anything wrong."

"False. None of that was her fault. [F/n] has never done anything wrong in her life. On the subject of the education system revamp project-"

"You'd have to arrange a meeting with the education and employment committees." Gideon seemed... perturbed. "You forget my place. My job is that of an international middleman, and I'm here to discuss international issues."

"Such as?" You and Maxon chimed.

"The newly made Eurasian Republic is on the verge of war with China, and the oligarchs expect the aid and troops we promised their monarchical predecessors and our allies."

The prince's face twisted. "Please. That treaty was made when Gregory Illéa walked the earth. Not to mention they executed the family we signed it with. Back to the food programs-" Maxon's eyes fell to you. "[F/n]."

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry to bring it up again, but.." Maxon sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "What you told me about your lifestyle until now. Was it true?"

You felt your own face start to twist. Why would you be lying? "100%."

"That's horrendous." Maxon clasped his hands together. "But an easy fix. I'll cut some unnecessary funding from certain projects and make do."

"Which projects?" Gideon pressed. "And why? You can't waltz around pocketing money from programs without due reason."

"If it's from nascent ones that nobody cares about, I'll be fine." Maxon threw his hands in the air. "What matters is putting food on Sixes and Sevens' plates."

"Little more direct than your typical tactics, but I like the boldness!" You chirped.

"I don't." Gideon gave you a look. "[F/n], I thought you of all people would be against that type of carelessness in politics. Neither of you have given a thought as to what that'd cause."

You considered the advisor's point. "I suppose I'm a bit more for it since it concerns problems that I've firsthand experienced with. Objectively speaking, though, what Maxon's suggesting would be better at soothing Illéa than whatever the palace could be working on.

"With how acclimated to deprivation the lower caste moderates have been during Clarkson's reign, they'll swear their lives to Maxon if he so much as gave them a meal ticket. Revolution would be reconsidered if such a kind king was ascending so soon."

"Maybe in retrospect, but it'd look useless to the committees right now. How would Maxon ever convince them?"

"I hate to interrupt, but you both talk as if I didn't think of this with your experiences in mind, [N/n]," Maxon tacked on. "There's nothing wrong with letting vehemence help decision making. Illéa is more passion driven than it is logic."

"Which is the exact reason why-" Gideon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I see the rationale in this, but in future predicaments, know that politics shouldn't be domineered by emotion."

"We aren't having it be," you said. "We're just factoring in the emotions of the people we're governing. They matter as much as anything else."

"I wasn't." Maxon shrugged. "Not really, anyways. If all of Illéa wanted to let [F/n] and all other Sevens starve, to hell with them."

"What?"

"What?"

"What?"

"Wait." You patted your cheek. "Maxon, that's very flattering, but I would recommend a less straightforward course of action if that really were the case. Just so the country wouldn't rip at its seams."

"At a bare minimum," Gideon inserted. "On a mildly related note, do we really have to get into a dispute every time we're all together? Can't we just talk about, I don't know, astronomy?"

"At a quarter to three in the afternoon?" You grinned. "Better yet, how about tomorrow morning after breakfast? We'll get a clearer look at the stars then."

"..-Uh, sure." Gideon looked too busy checking his watch to register what you said. "Did you say a quarter to three? Oh, dear. Sorry, but I have to go. See you tomorrow morning? By the way, what's that thing on the wall?"

"The mur- that was a joke?" You called after Gideon as he raced out the door. "That poor man. Do all of your advisors have that much on their plate?"

Maxon came to your side. "Don't worry, he likes having a full schedule. More importantly." He pointed a finger at you.

"[F/n] [L/n], as alluring to me as it used to be, why are you so hyper-focused on keeping me and national morale high for the sake of your well-being?"

Call out. You recoiled. "I-"

But Maxon grabbed your hands. "No. Not having it. I don't know how many times I'll need to remind you, but don't ever worry about how you'd negatively affect my life. Never, ever let thought that you could ever somehow wrong me cross your mind, because you couldn't if you tried."

"Maxon, I didn't even mean to, yet I've already done you the disservice of willing you to disregard public interest. The damage control I'd have to exercise on myself as chief minister if I managed that as a Selected would-"

"The only thing you'd have to worry about are the messes I'd make," Maxon said. "[F/n], you might be my soon-to-be coworker, but I can still do as I please. If I want to ruin my reputation to help you, there's nothing you can do about it. So don't feel responsible when I make a fool of myself."

You didn't know how to.. "Um." How do you respond to that when all he's said is out of care for you? "That's.."

"I know you still disagree with me because you're self-sacrificial and all, but that's that." Maxon let go of your hands to put his own akimbo. "Anyways, I need your help with some military planning."

What, so he's going to act like he didn't just spout a speech at you? "We've met some of the southern rebel forces in the middle and started to push back on them." Is this what he felt like after you've rambling on and on?

"I've basically been trying to fashion just the right variables to recreate a Battle of Gettysburg level victory over the south for the upcoming fight, and I don't want to mess it up."

"Uh." You shook your head. "Okay. Weren't you planning on just abandoning the village?"

"That was my first thought, but if we already know they're probably going to be in that area, we might as well use it to our advantage." You were still recovering from the transition when Maxon nudged you. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

A crooked smile formed on Maxon's face. "Are you sure? Because if you aren't, are you really gonna keep it from me after my rant about your well-being?"

"It's arrogant for you to assume my emotional state." You crossed yours arms.

"Is it?"

"Shouldn't you be on a date or something, mister?" You tapped his chest. "You've seen me at least once every other day. Are you bored? Need me to recommend more beauties?"

"Are you seriously upset that I hang out with you too much?" Maxon's grin grew. "Sorry that I want to talk to you. If it's for publicity sake, I've already taken them all on speed dates. You're out of excuses."

Oh. You still feel stressed, though. And Maxon has a project to work on, and so do you.

"Oh, speaking of which!" Maxon gasped. "Do I have a story to tell. You know Mikaela?"

You suppose you could stay here a little longer.

*

"Okay." You took down Recen's mile time. "That's it for the physical evaluations. You're free to go for today. Once again, if you don't know your haplotype, please go to Dr. Ashlar for screening and get back to me."

The guards, perplexed but grateful, disbanded from the training hall.

After you've organized all of this data, you can move onto the intelligence tests. When interviewing the guards last time for information on the northerners, of course, that wasn't your only plan in mind.

You had also fed them questions from personality tests such as the Myers-Briggs and Jung types; the big five; Keirsey's temperament sorter, unrelated to the five temperament test; the four communication styles; etc.

But intelligence tests? The Stanford-Binet, WAIS, Cattell, Hoeflin Power, Titan, Ultra? You still needed to figure out how to give those. After all, most of the Sevens are illiterate.

Speaking of language, a good thing to know on top of height and weight would be the languages they speak. Putting soldiers that share a second language together would be useful.

You'd need to ask for some equipment. But you can't let your examinations run too far—you'd doubt Markson and Clarkson would have much patience for anything other than security checks.

"Lady [F/n]!" You turned, and a badge was promptly shoved in your face. "I'm Charisma Nnuri from the New Rome. Could you explain why you're putting the guards through such extreme baselines?"

Oh, you forgot reporters were free to roam post parts of the castle before the first Report. You need the spotlight, but you'd appreciate it more on a controlled time every Saturday than an impromptu hour before dinner.

Because the current way knights are being handled is a disaster. "I'm collecting data to optimize their organization, is all. I need all the information regarding their strengths, weaknesses, and thresholds I can get."

"Are you implying that the present structure isn't already optimized?" Talk about a loaded question.

"No, but there is fresh blood from the eastern drafts arriving soon, and I need to ensure they properly assimilate. Thus, I might need to move around some things to keep our social cohesiveness at its best."

"So what is it that you're doing?" Nnuri probed. You offered her—one hand still gripping it—your clipboard, to which the rate of writing on her notepad increased tenfold. You covered the name with your thumb.

"His Majesty, in his generosity, has given me liberty with determining groups for the rexducere." You brought the board back to your chest. "I've been assessing the guards' physical and emotional prowesses to better divide them."

"And the rexducere are the pockets of four to six guards sharing their posts?"

"Yes. They, similarly, share four to six stations specified by His Majesty that they rotate through during the day."

"That's nearly 150 people."

"It might look intimidating, but I'll be judging their place based on around 30 different fitness and intelligence exams. By then, everyone will have been siphoned."

That, and their height, weight, body fat percentage, body mass index, lean body mass, and blood type. You cannot have four out of four people in a team be short endomorphs.

"Do you know why the king has called for more of these offensive, in-palace guards, or “rexducere,” for the palace?" The reporter's eyes narrowed, the sage green snaking from your clipboard to your face. "As those soldiers are also known for their heavier training. They're the royal fireteams, am I wrong?"

"To compare them to a fireteam is a bit rudimentary, wouldn't you agree?" You didn't like where this was going.

"I'm just stating the terms, ma’am." Nnuri smiled. "I don't mean to oversimplify, but seems to me by the name that they are."

More importantly, they're unaware admonishing the crown on a manner as serious as castle defense isn't worth it. It's better to suck up than stick up to a despot. "Then I suppose to you that the Holy Roman Empire was really holy, Roman, and an empire."

Nnuri scrunched her nose. "Um. You've heard of the most recent rebel attack on the palace, I presume?"

"I have."

"While nobody was hurt, His Majesty was still upset that the Selected were subjected to the motions. He has requested for the incoming rexducere to protect the Selected if-"

"Your Majesty!" Nnuri squeaked.

"Hm?" You followed the brunette's gaze. Which one? Père?

The son. Maxon interlocked his arm with yours and gave it a tight squeeze. "Apologies, ma'am, but-"

"Oh, no, no, no!" The woman has already scuttled into the abyss beyond the Mars hall. "I'll be on my way! I'm so sorry!"

"You have such a way with words." You put a hand on your heart, which Maxon smacked off with a sneer.

You opted to go to your room for whatever the emergency was, but Maxon had other ideas.

"Are you sure this is alright?" You asked as Maxon pushed you up the stairs. "The last time I was here your father almost-"

"It's fine, it's fine!" Maxon sang as you staggered into a familiar redwood table. "Just trust me, you're free to do whatever you please in here. Anyways, good news and bad news."

Maxon closed the door behind you. You say at the table. "What's up? Is your father upset or something?"

"Quite the opposite, actually." You quirked a brow. "As I've told you, father is impressed with my sudden talent at avant-garde military strategy, and has given me more influence in military operations.

"Given recent unrest in Illéa, he's taken over the homeland side of security completely. Meanwhile, he's handed me the reigns as de facto commander for foreign operations."

"Maxon!" You jumped up. "That's great! Sovereignty starts with military!"

"It sounds very portentous when you put it like that, but thank you." Maxon dusted off his shoulder, his countenance insouciant but the corners of his lips upturning.

"You'll finally start making your own choices!"

"Hm."

"You won't be overlooked or dismissed by dignitaries and presidents anymore!"

"Quiet down. Presidents Yamada and sir V-"

"They'll be forced to acknowledge you!"

"Shut up!" Maxon squealed and batted your hand. "Eek! Finally, some respect around here!" He exclaimed and rose to his feet, pacing the room. "Ahahaha! I mean, the road is harsh, but oho! I can be a real king! God!"

In a sporadic shift of emotion, he stomped his foot on the ground. "And now I'm all jittery! You know, I practiced keeping my composure when telling you this, but here I am, pacing and chittering like an idiot."

"No, no, look at me." You pointed to your own preppy prances. "We're both pacing and chittering. You have a right to be pacing and chittering. Please, continue."

So Maxon started making laps again, but this time with a heavier air accompanying him. "Bad news is, the newest tactics I've proposed in New Asia haven't been well received by some advisors. Do you have any ingenious ideas to deal with them?"

"They're still bothering you?" You tutted. "And to think I've been moving them around for naught. Let me tell you, they tend to forget forget the definition of despotism."

Maxon cocked a brow. "Moving them around?"

"In general, yeah. Mainly by gerrymandering commercial rights and some smaller stuff."

"Wait- you've been messing with the distribution of commercial rights? Since when?"

What did this dude think you were doing, gambling with these creeps almost every night? Enjoying yourself?

"Since I used the national archive's data from large-scale experiments conducted on the lands belonging to the royal family to allocate said rights to major noble factions who support you.

"Those successes have been keeping other powerful nobles in check while I've been dealing with the smaller groups that oppose you. My gambling buddies are, unbeknownst to them, very effective proxies.

"The "smaller stuff" is basically distancing them as far from Angeles as possible so you can extract more government control. Why do you think half the palace staff is always on week long vacations to Dominica?"

Maxon was scratching his head. "But wouldn't all that take back seat when dealing with the rebels?"

"Your father's already handling them." You shrugged. "Plus, rebels are annoying, but throughout history, the biggest threat to a king's rule has been his power-hungry nobility. We're no different.

"The power struggle between you and every Two working for you is one we can't ignore. Especially in times when your authority is being challenged. They haven't tried anything yet, I'm making sure it stays that way."

Maxon was shaking his head now.

"Don't worry," you stopped and turned around to reassure him. "It's like what you and Gideon said—they really aren't that clever. We can't have a Fronde when we're already dealing with worker rebellions. I'll handle it."

"How was I ever functioning without you?" He sighed and pulled you into an embrace.

You.. weren't sure how to respond to that. "Uh," you said, startled by your stutter. "Acceptably, at least, or you'd have been dethroned."

"Well, you were the one who found the rebel philosophes in my parent's guards, so that was an actual possibility. They might be dead in some parallel universe." Maxon rested his head on your shoulder as though he was a tired student and you were a desk.

You didn't know where to put your hands.

You tried around his stomach, like a traditional hug where you're the shorter one of the party, but Maxon was lower than you at the moment. Tentatively, you wrapped your hands underneath his arms, where your hands rested on his shoulder blades. This was weird, but pleasant nevertheless.

"I've been looking more into that, actually," you said. "Maybe I should start wearing one of those northern star things. See if I'm suddenly initiated into a sleeper cell of northern rebels in the palace."

On that note, Maxon lifted his head from your shoulder to give you an aghast look. "No way! That sounds dangerous."

"And?"

Maxon flicked the side of your head. "Don't "and" me. I know you can manage yourself, but I wouldn't want to see what happens if something got out of hand."

"Ow," you annunciated, and wriggled out of his embrace. "Even so, I'll still snoop around. It's still disconcerting to think there could be some covert rebel operation going on here."

"Go ahead and snoop around." Maxon's eyes fell to a copy of Utopia on the table. Whoever was reading that is certainly a character. "Honestly, I'm surprised by how well I've been handling this. I took the rats off the queen's guard, but it's just surreal to me that they've done absolutely nothing."

"They might just be insiders who can provide ease of access during raids," You suggested. "Gather some intel on the side."

"I guess that'd make sense." He side-stepped you and reached for the book. "In every attack launched by northerners, they outclass our knights. If they knew what the guards were trained in.."

"Can I you ask a question?"

Still flipping pages on Common Sense, Maxon looked up. "What?"

"Do the guards here, or officers in general, go through any background checks before being chosen?" Maxon's expression faltered.

"Um." The blond's fingers dug deep into his scalp. "No? Not that I know of. President Parikh and sir Varga handle such things with my father. As far as I know, we just check their caste. The most extensive thing that'd happen would be a NACLC if they're below a Five and they're suspicious."

"I'd suggest running a few background checks on these guys before letting them in."

Maxon's head lolled, and he dug his nose into his book. "Ew."

"That, and special adjudication processes for evaluating them."

"Ugh."

"You should've already been asking for all this. Fingerprints, birth certificates, citizenship identification, level of education, past and current residences, convictions and arrests, history of employment-"

"Would you have been able to make it into the Selection if the clearance processes and security checks were that rigorous?"

"Probably not, but that's my exact point."

Maxon almost laughed. "[N/n]!"

"I'm just saying! You don't want some rando to strut in here and mess everything up because you were hoping that they'd be eager provide you with insightful guidance."

"So we should we what? Run a polygraph test?"

"And a voice stress analysis." You got back on the bed. Again. "Oh, well. There's already too many rats to handle. Is there anything we can do without disturbing the hive?"

"I don't think so. Nothing I'd let you do, anyway." You frowned. What a nice reminder of how you are a willing bondman. "But we should disturb them before they disturb us. I have an idea that I'll have to get back to you on. I need to confirm some things. In the meantime, I'll be polishing my newest program."

"Your newest program?"

"I plan to unveil it in the Report."

"Oh, wow." Maxon laughed. "Wow. Thanks, Max. I really appreciate it. Really enjoying this mutualistic relationship we got going on. All trust. What else are you keeping from me?"

"That I'm able to tell?"


	10. A Royal Injury, An Approaching Deadline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These attacks seem to be occurring closer together, don’t you think?

"And then she told me that she had to touch up her nails halfway through because an ice chip had ruined the polish."

"That's ridiculous," you said. "I mean, I'm supportive of women doing all of that if they want to, but that's actually ridiculous."

"Right? When she told me that, I was like.." Maxon stopped for a moment, staring bug-eyed at a phantom of his mother, and started to laugh. "Okay? Was the epidural working? But then the doctors went for a caesarean section, so she was out out after that."

"Wow." You rubbed your eyes, feeling the blood rushing to your head. "I mean, like, just.. nobody cares, you know? About that, I mean."

"Exactly! I don't think she was feeling pressured to look pretty or feminine by anyone, or at least she says she wasn't, but something was still, in a non-demeaning way, up with that."

"Yeah. I can only think that women in general, but especially elites, have kinda been taught to equate how you look to emotional stability? But in a bad, unrelated way?"

"I get it. Because it's not like makeup is part of a dress code or anything. It's just a thing that you do, allegedly for yourself, but there's still a right and wrong way to do it."

"It has to be a control type of mechanism." You tried to sit up, but the edge with which you were hanging off the bed and your lackluster will piled against your effort. "Like diet culture." You covered your mouth. "Oh my god, I can't believe I just related makeup to eating disorders."

"Okay, that is weird, but this is an extreme and awkwardly comparable case," Maxon pointed out. "The question on your mind during labor shouldn't be if your eyeshadow's holding up. The cognitive dissonance is just- bad."

"There's probably an upmost of three things you can be thinking about while you're giving birth, and that shouldn't be one of them." Maxon chuckled at your comment. "I don't know, though. Maybe women need to distract themselves with something during labor and makeup is a modern outlet?"

"Evolutionarily speaking?"

"I guess. Yeah, actually. People used to die in childbirth all the time—we're probably, like, the eighth generation of humans that live in the age of medicine that's actually helpful."

"What a luxury."

"That's what I'm thinking. Maybe it's to keep the idea of actually dying at bay. Maybe whenever women of the past went in to labor, they subconsciously thought-" you threw up your arms, dusting them for added effect. ""-well, it's been great," and start doing anything other than focusing on their incoming deaths."

""I've lived a good 14 years.""

""That's twice the time my brother had.""

"I also like how you say "medicine that's actually helpful" as if medical practices predating the eighteenth century were just a bunch of guys messing around."

"Um? Hello?" You did sit up this time, scooting back onto the bed. "It was? Have you ever read Suśruta's Compendium? Even if you completely detach yourself from hindsight bias, it's mind boggling."

"I would've loved to live somewhere in the Mediterranean in the 15th century," Maxon keened. "You just needed to know how to wash your hands or draw and suddenly you're a genius. Those were simpler times."

"Sure, and I'd die during childbirth at 13."

"That's a bit young, even back then."

"You think?"

"Yeah, you'd probably be going on 14." You shook your head. "Like Juliet."

"I am not Juliet Capulet!" You gasped as Maxon started to laugh. "Out of all of Shakespeare's characters, you-? What gives you the impression I'd kill myself over some guy?"

Maxon rolled over, turning to you and caressing your cheek with a sickeningly sweet smile. "But what if it was true love?"

You batted his hand away. "Stop it, you're giving me goosebumps."

Maxon took his retracted hand and neatly folded it against his chest. "I think true love exists," he said cheekily.

"Or maybe Don Juan syndrome should be put in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders."

"How did we even get to this?"

"Maharshi Suśruta."

"..Right. Anyways, I haven't read a lot of things. Speaking of which." Maxon removed Upton Sinclair's The Jungle from your lap. "Are you done reading this? I wanted to skim it."

"Be my guest." You crossed your legs.

"Actually." Maxon rubbed his eyes. "What time is it? No doubt close to dinner. We shall return to our medical stories at a later date."

"I don't think I'll be able to tomorrow afternoon," you said. Maxon huffed, and after scooting his chair even further towards yours, leaned shoulder-to-shoulder against you, shuffling papers. "There's some new recruits I'll be teaching in the guard, so training might be longer than usual."

"Then when are you free?" He has his right hand pressed into his face, two fingers skimming his hairline and the rest pushing into his cheek. It garbled his voice and tilted his head almost onto your neck. "I can fit your schedule."

It must've been the wording, or the idea that you somehow held dominion over his work when you shouldn't, but Maxon's suggestion made you squirm.

"What?" The pitch of your voice startled you. "You can fit my- I mean- don't just put off your other duties like that. Work and the Selection should be your priority."

"Excuse me, miss future minister president." Maxon said. "But you're part of my work life now. And the Selection. There's no avoiding this."

"You know what? I think I'll see dinner to my room." You stretched. "I have some stuff to work on."

"What?" Maxon frowned. "But I thought you made it a point to attend dinner every night. Now I'll have to talk with other people."

You grinned. The prospect of being part of some secret circle of people whom Maxon actually enjoyed spending time with was a bit pretentious by nature, but heartwarming nevertheless. "Sorry to disappoint. I'll be enjoying a nice and quiet evening in my room."

"What're you working on, anyways?"

"Preparations for my debut on the Report." Even the thought made you squirm. But you couldn't be worried. "I'll be fine, I think—I just have some things to mull over. Just like you and your project."

After a minute or two, you were out of the library and in the hallway. Dinner in bed was nice enough that you were tempted to pull it again, and you went to bed memorizing notecards.

The next morning, breakfast was equally as quiet. Mainly because the king and queen were absent, as you heard they were last night, too. Maxon pulled you aside after breakfast with the intention to "walk with you."

About 20 paces from the dining hall, heading in the direction of the garden Maxon's voice dropped. "Could you do me a favor?"

"What?" Maxon glanced behind him, a his hand reaching for his hair.

"Those officers you think are northern rebels." Maxon's speed increased. "Do you think you could arrange something with Markson to assign them to my doors during the night?"

"What?" Was he insane? "Maxon, didn't you have doubts that they were harmless? Why post them outside your room when you're most vulnerable?"

"The entire ordeal has been driving me insane since yesterday evening," he admitted. "And what you said about security, I- I couldn't get to sleep. I went around the palace, looking for anybody with rebel paraphernalia.

"I'm setting the stage for an intervention," he said. "You and me, after the Report. Don't worry about anything, all I need you to do is bring Gavril to the grand fountain in the winter garden. Can you do that?"

"I can, but am I on a need-to-know basis, or..?" Maxon strode into the gardens, you scrambling after him despite your arm hooked onto his.

"Have you ever noticed the pin Gavril always wears on his lapel?" Maxon whispered.

"Gavril? His star-" you blinked. Oh, even you liked that guy. "Aw, et tu, Brute? He was basically this generation's Cronkite."

"I took Kriss out yesterday after dinner. Have you ever taken a look at her necklace? It-" And he lifted his head. "Ah, Gideon."

"I didn't think I'd remember to come, really." What the hell was that? Gavril's pin? Kriss' necklace? "But it's a nice to have a breather from castle life."

Was she-? You felt embarrassed for not noticing if it was true.

"I've been told you aren't fond of elongated breaks," you forced an in-character taunt. As your mind was elsewhere, you couldn't perceive Gideon's response well other than some shift of a facial attribute.

"By whom?" Maxon failed to stifle a snicker, and Gideon scoffed. "Very funny. Anyhow, Maxon, the Eurasian R-"

"Hold on," Maxon said. "I thought we were here to discuss astronomy."

As much as you wanted in on the latest diplomatic drama, you could tell Maxon had enough on his plate. And stars are cool. "Did you know that stars don't actually twinkle? They only look like they do because of interference from the earth's atmosphere—it's called astronomical scintillation."

"Did you know they're actually different colors? Analyzing a star's electromagnetic radiation shows that their coloration can be anything from red or yellow to blue or white."

"Really? What about cooler secondaries?"

"Surprisingly-"

"I'd really we rather talk about current events," Gideon interrupted. "Especially the news that came in this morning."

You couldn't remember reading anything of worth in your magazines or newspapers. "What news?"

Gideon turned to Maxon. "Maxon, you handle most out of state military now, right?"

Maxon hesitated. "Yes?"

"Empress Yùnyún has just seized the kowloon peninsula from the Eurasian Republic."

The prince made a face. "Unless I read the Treaty of Beijing wrong, China agreed to g-"

"They did," Gideon finished.

Wait a minute. "And why does that matter to us?" You piped up. "Our alliance with Russia when we needed to expel China from the ASC does not transfer unto the Eurasian Republic. Let's use our manpower for our own wars. Illéa has preferred isolationism since the Wallis administration."

"Isolationism doesn't seem to be the best course of action in this," Gideon heeded. "They're considering supporting New Asia's war against us. They've been promised the lantau and aberdeen islands if there's a New Asian victory."

Maxon made a noncommittal noise and clasped his hands together. "What are the oligarchs' names, again? In the Republic? How about we invite them over for tea?"

"France nor the German Federation would ever forgive you," you warned.

"It's a double-edged sword," Maxon argued. "Nobody in Europe likes the Eurasian Republic—they hopped on the democracy bandwagon nearly two centuries late."

"Firstly, if you were to invite them to stay here, you can't call them oligarchs or products of meritocracy for aristocrats," Gideon chided. "Secondly, they haven't been doing very well politically.

"A powerful member of the Directorate of Virtue was assassinated."

"Oh, no, a directorate?" Maxon clutched his chest. "Assassinated? Such a rare and remarkable event."

"You don't-" Gideon muttered something beneath his breath. "By powerful, I mean the Pyotr the Undaunted. 

"His wife, Sofya the Eager, is acting as regent to her son and interim director Alexei Petrovich Romanov until an election can be held." Election was put in air quotes.

"So Alexei and his mother." Maxon took out a mobile phone and began typing away. "Who else would I need to win over?"

"Viktor Vladimirovich and Ilya Vasilyevich Romanov," Gideon finishes.

"At least the lot of them chose a surname easy to spell," Maxon murmured. "Nationalists.."

"They were Pyotr's closest companions, and Sofya gave them each 90,000¥₽ out of the money Pyotr left to her." The rest of the sentence after and was less than heartfelt, but not surprised.

"That's not at all concerning," you said.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor," Gideon said.

"Good god, Gideon," Maxon cried. "You can't expect me to open my doors for a trio of murderers?"

"No, no!" Gideon shook his head, but the rate slowed as he conversed with himself. "I wouldn't do that to you. Your father, maybe. He's a little less.. well, I digress. I'm only asking we invite Alexei over. He had nothing to do with the assassination.

"His mother may be helicoptering him, but he's as old as you, Maxon. He has considerable influence. Most of the Republic's military matters are dealt with by him and him only."

So you were starting to see some parallels between Alexei's accomplishments and Clarkson's expectations. You looked over to Maxon.

"Lucky him," Maxon seethed. "I'll discuss meeting him with my mother. Anything else before we get back to stars?"

Gideon raised his hands. "That's all. It'd be nice if [F/n] could make more appearances at more governmental events, though. I like parading her around."

This guy really is a workaholic. "Don't encourage her," Maxon said. "She's already made herself miserable with her current schedule."

"I'm telling you, it'll lighten up after the Report," you insisted. "I just need to get through the foundation building, I swear. The only thing I'll have to do throughout this is be friendly towards people I don't want to be friends with."

"Politics wants cynics." Gideon gazed at his hands. "And I am a bit jaded, but I don't think I could be rude to people who wanted to befriend me if I tried."

"I could," Maxon jeered. "My tolerance for those kinds has been eroding for awhile. Don't tell my mother I said that."

"I'm fine with them," you said. "They're déclassé, sure, but not very high rollers. I can withstand faux erudite discussion in exchange for monetary ephemera."

"As someone who is bad at any and every game," Gideon began. "I feel like I have to say that, in their defense, gambling can be very aleatoric."

"If you don't know how to manipulate dice, I could see how large stake games could descend into discord."

"You can manipulate dice?"

"You haven't been at many of the sessions, Gideon, but it's what you'd expect." Maxon shrugged. "By now I just supply her chips."

"But it's essential for my parlaying!" You gushed graciously. "You are indispensable for my gameplay. And keeping ennui at bay in general."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"I am a poor professional, you an affluent amateur."

"Nor does that."

"And I give you a portion of my spoils, as well. There are economies of scale we're both profiting from."

"Uh-huh."

"Manus manum lavat."

"Good lord," Gideon said. "I'm a royal translator and even I don't use such language in relaxed speech."

You and Maxon looked at each other. Schemingly.

"Shatneresque," the prince said.

"Sacrilegious," you added.

Gideon sighed.

"Kleptomaniac!"

"Kafkaesque!"

"This was a mistake."

"Headology!"

"Both of you, quiet."

"Here I thought a hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobic linguist would be an oxymoron," you chimed and crossed your arms. "Antidisestablishmentarianism."

"Okay, that one doesn't count!" Gideon interrupted. "In what manner can you reference a 19th century British opposition against decreation of the Anglican Church in regular conversation?"

"I just did," you said and crossed your arms. Maxon oohed like a schoolboy when a friend gets in trouble.

"..Touché." Gideon raised his hands as one would a white flag in war. "But I stand firm in keeping my choice of words compendious. The two of you sound horribly pretentious."

"Perhaps you sound grotesquely prosaic," you sang.

Maxon rolled his eyes. "Since when were you a lingual philistine, anyways?"

"Unlike you two, I earnestly prefer to keep my speech comprehensible," Gideon stressed. "I am a man of few words naturally, and I want the people to understand what I'm saying."

You nudged Maxon. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

You and the prince shared a quick giggle as Gideon adjusted his cuffs.

"You know," the translator said. "I didn't come here for a word-off."

"Oh, no," Maxon replied.

"But your sardonic aplomb leaves me with no choice but inundate you with a demonstration of my full lexicon via such pathetic, ad-libbed harangues."

"'Twas a ruse!" You grinned. "Lest you're plain mercurial. Even so, your quotidian, eugenecized vocabulary doesn't provide you with sufficient practice with the diversity of the English language. The best you'll kvetch in battle are low lexile philippics with adequate syntax."

"In a diluted synopsis," Maxon said. "If you don't use it, you lose it. Quod erat faciendum."

"And yet would opine your lack of precision in the usage of your words thereof is the antithesis of-" Suddenly, Gideon's pace slowed. "Don't look now, but cameras are approaching."

Oh.

"But they can't hear us, can they?" You asked. "We just need to act natural?"

Maxon nodded as Gideon slipped behind his tall, filled-in side profile.

"Wow." You never noticed how lanky the latter man was until now. "It's like a lamppost behind an ionic column."

"Thanks, [F/n]," Gideon muttered as he poked out from behind Maxon's shoulder. "And is it just me, or is that news van really pushing their boundaries?"

You stole a look at what Gideon was studying. A plain, conspicuous news van had softly sputtered its way to a clearer area of the garden, void of all things green in lieu of some clovers. It looked as though it was made for journalists to peep through.

"It's best I take my leave sooner than later," you heard Gideon say, and afterwards a pair of footsteps fall out of sync from yours and Maxon's. Slowly, they faded away. "Au revoir."

"Adios," you muttered back.

From the back of the purring vehicle, two people jumped out the front. Front doors still open, the pair rushed to the back of the van and swung the backdoors open. The sturdier-looking one hopped into the back and began pushing out... machinery, to put lightly.

You frowned at the sound of the persistent engine. They stopped pretty hard, too.

"[F/n]," Maxon whispered. "They look like they have quality equipment. We best keep our voice level down and conversation trivial."

"That van is in no way safely parked," you said.

"Please don't talk about them while they're documenting us," Maxon begged lowly. "Or try to talk to them."

"No, look." You tugged the boy's sleeve and pointed a finger to the skid marks left on the asphalt you could see. "Judging by the tire treads and the sound, there was only partial application of the parking brake before the reporters exited the vehicle."

"So?"

"Well, road looks to have around a 40-degree incline, and look at how heavy their equipment is. Even with only standard apparatuses, which they've yet to unload, the weight would be exerting considerable force on any car's transmission."

"What?"

"I'm just saying, based on the total poundage of their impedimenta, the maximum capability of the breaks should be exceeded in, like, five seconds."

"What?" Maxon threw in the kitchen sink in a sprint for the crew. "Hey! Park your van!"

"Hey- your Majesty!" You chased after him.

When Maxon was around a foot from the gate, you heard a snapping noise from the van. You got to Maxon's side just in time to see the van roll out of view. You grimaced.

But Maxon was staring at something beyond where the evanescent truck laid.

The people were still there. Facing the two of you. A yard away from the gate. One was holding something in her hand.

You lunged forward, grabbing the back of Maxon's suit and pulling him behind you.

"Your Majesty, MOVE!"

The explosion was far from where the rebels had wanted it, but not far enough to save you and Maxon from its reach.

Your vision was veiled in the thick yellow, but you turned around and pushed a figure you presumed to be Maxon. It stumbled forward. "Go!"

"Th-!" It grabbed your wrist, and you ran to a wall. After sliding across the stone for a hectic minute, you heard a patterned slam, and you were tugged down a flight of stairs. "In here!"

As soon as your misstepping feet felt solid ground again, Maxon let go of your wrist and slammed something on the wall. Above your head, the trapdoor churned until the cracks of dandelion tinged daylight were sealed off.

A red light flickered on, and Maxon was propped against the wall. One hand was on a switchboard, and the other on his eyes. His shoulders were shaking, and you could hear him hiccup more than breathe.

You approached him. "Are you hurt?"

"No, no-" Maxon reassurance between clenched teeth was pretty contradictory. "I'm-" He tried to take a step forward, but fell into the wall again.

"Maxon!" You took his hands to help steady him, and one of your palms came into contact with a warm wetness. When you looked up, prismatic tears were pearling down Maxon's face.

"My foot-" he stammered. "My foot-"

"You'll be fine," you coaxed. "You'll be fine. Come here."

Maxon gulped, but nodded nonetheless. His stiff, resisting hands softened, and you moved between them and wrapped your hands around the dip of his back and behind his knees.

"Wh-" was all Maxon could manage before you had scooped him up bridal style.

"I'll patch you up." Your eyes were still adjusting to the rouge lighting, but you spotted a red-crossed white box on the corner of the wall opposite to you.

Trudging would be the best verb to describe your walk, as the prince was a healthy 170 lbs. After your eyes had adjusted enough for you to note an unopened stretcher and first aid kit bolted on the wall, you sat him up there.

"I'll-" Maxon started to say, but winced and put a hand on his throbbing foot. "You-"

"Save it for the questions." You grabbed the kit and set it by the footrest.

Solemnly observing the saddening sight of his hand massaging his left foot, you gently worked your way around his shaking fingers to tale off his shoe. "Did you injure it while running?"

Maxon nodded. "-Down the stairs."

So he fell forward. "Do you recall hearing a popping or cracking sound when you did?"

Maxon shrugged. "Uh, cracking?"

"Can you move or put pressure on it?"

"No."

"Do you feel any numbness?"

A bitter choir of chuckles escaped his chest. "I wish."

"Hm." There wasn't any swelling above his foot. When you prodded anywhere on his lower leg, he didn't respond.

"Would you say the pain is proximal more so to your lateral malleolus of fibula, or your metatarsals?"

"What??"

"Does it hurt closer to your ankle or your toes?"

"Oh. Toes." Maxon rested his head against the thin mattress. "Why didn't you say that?"

"Sorry. Does your ankle hurt, though?"

"It feels like somebody twisted it."

"What's in my red zone of triaging is a possible hyperflexion of the foot," you declared, now unwrapping the bandages in your hand. "You might have some stress fractures in your mid-foot. Could you lift your leg for me?"

Maxon mumbled something indignantly, but raised his leg up. You began ripping several small strips of bandages from the roll until you had what you believed to be a gross.

The prince couldn't keep himself from tensing, and with every movement you made towards him he leaned out of like a child refusing to take cold medicine.

"Maxon, don't worry. I won't hurt you." Your hand brushed the injury, the room too red for you to distinguish any bruising, and Maxon froze.

Froze, but didn't cringe. Even as you applied slight pressure, Maxon didn't jump up with an anguished cry he himself had anticipated. "See?"

Carefully, you secured each individual metatarsal. You weren't sure which had been broken, so you accounted for all of them. There was a plethora of bandages in the kit, so you took liberty in bandaging his toes to each adjacent one.

You covered his entire foot with the excess strips. It wouldn't help his ankle, though. You needed something made to prevent swelling.

"That's.." Maxon searched for the words. "..snug."

"It's about to get snugger." After examining at the new fuchsia roll you had taken out of the kit, you were sure it was compression wrap. "You sprained your ankle, too."

Holding his ankle up, you wrapped the ball of his foot. As you moved in circles around the arch of his foot to his toes and back over to his ankle in infinity-esque swirls, Maxon found his voice.

"I'm-" he said. "I'm sorry. I've never been that close to a... to a r-rebel before. I panicked."

His blurts were fine by you so long as they didn't inhibit you from bounding his calf to his heel. "You don't have to be sorry. At least we're here."

Maxon paused, and laid down. "You saved my life again."

"Again? When else?"

"When-" Maxon shot up again. "What do you mean, when? When they tried to throw a grenade into the dining hall last time!"

"When they threw that grenade last time," you repeated. Your memory of events in the past few minutes were hazy, but- "Oh, that? Like I said, it was just a smoke grenade."

"You're so-!" Maxon curled a his hand into a fist and positioned it above your head, but groaned and abandoned the motion. "I don't know. It could've been poisonous gas or mustard gas or something, like during the previous Selection. I really need to propose that "moat" plan to father."

You couldn't help but laugh at Maxon's retort. "Mustard gas? Because it was mustard colored? That's adorable. I'm not even being condescending."

"It's not the books in the library give a breakdown of its chemical compounds," Maxon fumed. "The characters in All Quiet on the Western Front had better things to do."

"You're so sharp yet-" you stopped and stood. "Do you think Gideon is alright?"

"Gideon?" Maxon echoed sourly. "Uh, yes. We were a hop, step, and a jump from the palace entrance when he left. Let's focus on our survival."

Now out of caretaker mode, you scanned your dimly lit surroundings.

You felt nausea blossom in your stomach. "Are there any weapons in here?"

"Maybe." As soon as you moved to investigate any gun-like cast shadow, Maxon clung to your arm like a ball and chain. "You aren't thinking of going out there, are you?"

"But they're obviously northerners," you countered. "If they weren't, they'd have thrown a real grenade. I wouldn't be putting myself in any danger."

"Then Gideon isn't in any danger, either!"

You could feel the urgency inflating your chest, threatening to break through your ribs. You needed to find him. "But Gideon doesn't know that!"

The room had a low-ceiling and was dimly lit. The air stung to breathe in and you were restrained. Outside, you could hear commotion. Panic. And you were stuck in the low-ceiling room that was dimly lit.

"Gideon is smart enough to-" Another grenade went off. Maxon pulled you up against the rail of the stretcher. "Oh, just think for a moment, [F/n]. I thought you of all people would be self-preserving."

With the faint scolding, you felt your fickle fear seep out of your fingertips like a fungal infection. Maxon's grip and sharp words left your body exsanguinated of any hot blood.

You didn't need to find him, you wanted to find her. You slumped. "Sorry. I got a little.." Nostalgic, maybe? You grabbed your hair. "Sorry."

You could sense Maxon's skeptical stare sear into your skin. He sighed and loosened his hold on your waist. "You worry me."

"What's more worrying is how rowdy the northerners are getting," you grumbled.  
"What was your intervention plan?"

"Don't change the subject." Whoa, you weren't meaning to. "Your concern for me and the palace is fine and well, considering you want to work here, but I want to talk about you."

"Me?" You asked. "What about me?"

"Your life." Maxon retracted his arms and sat up straight. "Y-"

There was a knock on the door. You and Maxon both jumped.

"Where-?" You began to hiss, whipping your head around. Your eyes were maladjusted still, but you dove around the dark corners in search for weaponry nevertheless.

Your shoulder hit the muzzle of a rifle as you were opening a chest. The knocking grew louder, with muffled shouts behind it. You cocked the gun.

"[F/n]!" Maxon whispered harshly as you rushed to the base of the stairs. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Maxon, for God's sake, shut your mouth and hide!"

There were some words of defiance, but nothing afterwards besides scampering and shuffling of scrap metal. The knocking grew louder.

"Your Majesty!" You heard. Like you would open the door to that. "Your Majesty?"

"Open the door!" You heard Maxon seethe from somewhere behind a shelf.

"If they're guards, they should know how to find the door!" You spat back, voice barely below conversational level. After all, they could be rebels. Or one of the traitorous guards. Or genuine guards who are leading rebels to the general area of a safe room by command. You didn't want to risk it.

Your finger was trembling against the rifle's trigger when the commotion outside the door quieted. And then the door flew open.

A light so intense it nearly blinded you poured into the musty room. You were still squeezing the gun when an armored figure descended the steps. It didn't hesitate upon seeing your weapon.

"No need to be afraid, miss. You can put that down." The boy patted the gun, which was pointed between his eyes. "You're safe now. The rebels have been driven out." The soldier wore Illéa's crest, sure, but you didn't recognize his face. "Where is the prince?"

You turned the gun over in your hand. The pistol whip you delivered him across the head produced a satisfying thok, and he dropped.

The rebel landed in the classic position you'd find a body in at a crime scene. You felt tempted to outline him in chalk, but since you didn't have any, you dug your heel into his back him and shoved the muzzle of the rifle into the base of his skull.

"Miss-" he coughed, but you only pushed the nose further into his skin. The external occipital protuberance was a nice nook for the tip of the gun. "M-"

"Who brought you here?"

"I'm- I'm a g- g-gau-"

"Like hell you are. Who brought you here?"

"[L/n]!" You recognized that voice. You looked up to see Markson running down the steps.

"Markson!" You replied.

"S-" you thrusted the gun again and the man below you shut up.

"What's the status up there?" You asked. "Someone lead a rebel here. They must've traded paraphernalia."

"What are you talking about?" Markson asked. "The rebels were subdued. I sent a-" his flint gaze dropped, as did the melanin levels in his skin. "Oh, shit, Leger."

"What?" You lowered your gun and stepped off soldier's back, though you were wary to set the scope off him just yet. "Leger?"

"Yeah, Leger. Damn, that's my fault." Markson got to his knees and examined the boy's head. "[L/n], he's fresh blood. Arrived this morning with the rest of the new recruits. This is my fault—I should've sent a familiar face, Avery or something.. you okay, kid?"

You dropped the gun and took a walk in a tight circle. "Oh, god, I just made the worst first impression."

Between your fingers on the hands you had placed upon your face, you could see Leger bug-eyed and struggling to intake air.

One arm of his was jerked awkwardly over his head. As your eyes followed the angle, you saw he was fingering the ridge of his skull were you had planned to, quite literally, blast off. Jesus, you need to get a hold of yourself.

"I told you to let them in," you heard Maxon chide from behind you. "I swear, [N/n], you go into lockdown mode whenever something like this happens. You'll have to get used to these attacks."

A shameful blush crept to your cheeks at the condemnation. Maybe you did make out everything to be worse than it was. "Sorry," you muttered and knelt beside and rolled Leger over. "Are you okay? Can you stand? I am so, so sorry."

"I-" Leger started coughing before he could finish his sentence. The fall must've knocked the wind out of him.

With the new light flooding the safe room, you sat him up and checked to see if his pupils were dilated. "Just take slow, deep breaths through your mouth. Focus on your stomach."

"You've scarred him," Markson commented with a sinister smile.

"Ugh, don't say that." Leger's sputtering was dwindling, but not with enough speed before his eyes started to widen and his breathing started to go astray. "Hey, you're fine. You just need to stretch out your diaphragm. Push your stomach out when you breathe in, suck it in when you breathe out."

"She's totally scarred him," Maxon egged on.

"That's it." Leger had regained control over his breathing. The wheezes had reduced to slight clearings of his throat, where you assumed his throat felt dry. Given how rapidly he was inhaling the sawdust and fluff lingering in the air, you wouldn't be surprised.

He turned to you, and you outstretched a hand. He took it. "Please don't ever do that again," he said as you helped him up.

"That's not how I typically greet people, I swear." You turned to Markson. "How long do we have until the press arrives?"

"Enough." Markson's eyes were on Leger's dazed stance, but they soon dropped to something closer to the ground. "Your Majesty!" He dove to Maxon's feet. "You're injured!"

"What?" Maxon took a step back and winced. "Oh. That. It's as fine as it could be. Lady [F/n] has a knack for nursing."

"Do you feel dizzy?" You examined the area where the butt of your gun had met Leger's head. While the handle of your weapon had broken, Leger's temple, ear, and jaw were pristine. "Nauseated?"

"No and no." There was, thankfully, no delay between your prompts and Leger's responses. "I don't have a headache, either. I'm as surprised as you are."

"What about fatigue? Any ringing in the ears?" He didn't lose consciousness, and he didn't seem amnesiac.

"No, but my throat hurts if that means anything."

You allowed yourself one sour-noted laugh. "That's because the atmosphere down here is miasmatic."

"Shall we leave?" Maxon hobbled to your side. "It feels like I'm swallowing cardboard with every breath I take."

"Let's. I, personally, can sense the imbalance in my humors." You put a hand on your chest. "My blood is coagulating."

"Okay." Maxon ran his hands through his hair as you began to snigger. "Thanks, [F/n]. Love that imagery. How will I do this?"

"Get up the stairs, you mean?" Markson asked and reached out for Maxon. "[L/n], you take Leger. I'll help his Majesty."

You studied Leger's, although somewhat strained, strikingly straight stance. He glanced to you and shrugged, but you placed either hand in front and behind him anyways. Just in case he needed spotting.

"After you." You nodded to Markson, who had yoked a disgruntled Maxon to his hip. The two started their ascend at a snails pace. And it stayed at that rate. You and Leger caught each other's unentertained eyes, and you felt another pang if guilt.

"Sorry for doubting you were a guard," you mumbled to the noiret. "Paranoia got the best of me."

"It's fine." Aspen rubbed the back of his head. "A bit of a jerk move, but fine. Just give me some time to brace if you ever do it again. You're, uh, the Seven, right? I've heard some guards talk about you."

One advantage your caste had was that lower level workers already had a predisposition to be more casual around you than with the other Selected. Of course, even they might be a bit deterred with how you're a bottom-feeder, but they'd warm up to you quickly. You supposed this was just another manifestation.

"That's me." You felt yourself reach for your hair, but you stopped yourself. 

Leger looked you up and down. He lingered on your arms and hands, which you supposed would show the effects of any labor you've done. "..How?"

Now it was your turn to look this guy up and down. "Oh, you know, I couldn't make up my mind between Six or Eight, so I split the difference. What about you?"

"Six."

You lifted the fist you had in front of Leger in the air. He bumped it. "Nice! Even though I'm now a Three and you're a Two."

"That is a thing, yeah."

"But Three is still greater than Two, so I win." Leger smirked.

"Oh, yeah, great job," he mused. "I really downgraded over here. Good for you, working your way back up."

"Took a lot of grinding to get where I am now."

"I'm green with envy."

"Really? Wanna trade? I'm open for it."

"You know what? I think I'll pass. Generous of you to offer, though."

"Your loss."

"My son!" You and Leger were two steps from the exit of the safe room. Perfect view to see Queen Amberly nearly tackle Maxon with King Clarkson power-walking behind her.

Markson released the boy and missed getting caught in the crossfire of maternal love by the skin of his teeth. However, he wasn't out of harms way when it came to fraternal disappointment. Clarkson's icy, grayed eyes swept over him and you both. What did you do?

Before you could analyze any further, Clarkson cut your contemplation of his glare and turned to his wife. "Thank you for protecting my son. You three are dismissed. Don't mother him, Amberly," he called after her.

You watched the dynamic unfold. "Come on, [L/n]." Odd.


	11. Rising Anxieties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Report is almost upon us, and oddly enough, the reader has more important things to worry about.

With not much else to do, you, Markson, and Leger left. The training hall was packed with throngs of guards, some new faces and others old. You felt embarrassed for the palace that they'd arrived the day of an attack.

Before you could round the pillar to meet everyone, Markson knocked on your shoulder. "Your maids told me they have something for you. Meet us here once you've gotten it." With that, the head of guard entered the arena. "Afternoon."

Um? That was vague. Bewildered, you turned back and made your way to the third floor and find the corner your room was tucked into.

You opened the door, but couldn't see anyone. "Uh, hello?"

"You have no idea how cool of a project this was," Marca quipped.

You swear to god, you nearly hit the ceiling. Where was she? You looked around, but Marca's whereabouts taunted you.

"Oh my gosh, it was so much fun!" Anima emerged from the bathroom with a yip. "Going to the workroom with everybody working on their Report dresses and-"

"Here it is!" You whipped around at the sensation of something thin and cold being placed on your head. "Hey, quit moving."

"None if you have told me what's going on." Zafira, who was behind you, still held that something in her hands. "May I at least have that courtesy before you do anything?"

"Well!" You turned around again, and Marca was beside you. "Recently, we've all come to terms with something."

"And that is?"

"That you aren't very ladylike," Zafira finished. "At least in the demure, agreeable way. It concerned us at first. We thought his Majesty wouldn't like the attitude."

"We were worried he'd think you preferred the guards over him," Anima added.

That hurt and offended on many different levels. "If he doesn't like my personality or my rapport with his knights, then so be it."

Zafira only shrugged. "Anyways, but we've come to terms with it. You're a lady of many talents, so we've decided to support you."

"Plus, his Majesty seems to like strong-headed women!" Marca cheered. Zafira stared daggers over your shoulder and raised what she had tried to put on your head again. It looked like a coronet, but it was sparkling.

"I just think it's cool!" Anima announced. "I can't even hold a sword right. You're amazing, miss."

Meh. Physically, you wouldn't say it's very cool, or that you're too talented. At least not in the innate, passionate way. You're good at things because you needed to be, and to think about it brought upon you a feeling of helplessness you didn't like to stew in.

You suppose not anymore, though. "Thanks. And what is that?" You sighed, arms folded against your chest.

"Oh, this?" Zafira let it catch the light, the action immediately blinding you. Whatever it's function, it was certainly bedazzled. "It's just the headpiece. The real thing is in the bathroom. Go, go."

In a series of pushes, you stumbled into the bathroom. Marca shouldered past you and helped Anima, who was turned around and fumbling with several clunky and shiny things that clanged whenever they so much as brushed each other. "Voilà!" Marca looked over her shoulder, and she and Anima turned around on cue.

You gasped.

"Wait, wait, wait," Anima squeaked, bounding towards you. "Look here! These were mine. I wanted to make weapons, but I figured you'd have your own. Do you like them?"

You ran your fingers along the ribs of the lapis gorget. Each groove was intricately detailed with teeny tiny etchings, bejeweled with citrine at the end.

The other pieces looked to be a pair of greaves with cuisses, but they were long enough to reach your thighs when you put them on. They weren't the same material as the gorget—bronze, maybe—luxuriantly tawny and meticulously carved, but void of any stones.

"Oh, move," Marca complained, pushing Anima out of the way. Her arms were full, too. "Check these out!"

In her hands were a pair of amethyst, knee-high boos. Some type of athletic-aqua hybrid, which reminded you of the military footwear you exploited during your sparring match. They were a deep indigo, and while they didn't have any flashy embellishments, they were somehow glittering. "I painted them with wet-ground mica!"

...Like in cars?

"And, of course, everybody's favorite," Marca emceed, offering you the final piece of armor. Another copper hued thing with wine accents.. a bodice, an overbust corset starting just below where the gorget would lay. There was a single, vertical piece of imperial purple piping down the the middle. On top was a metal rose, welded onto the center of the breastplate. The flower was topographic, but the gems that lined it were just as textured.

"Swarovski crystals," Marca huffed, watching the salt-sprinkled iron embroidery twinkle in the light. "Check out the trim!" She exclaimed, turning the chest plate to its side and revealing the royal blue outlining its pointed pauldrons. "There's accessories, too!"

She was holding something underneath the bodice with a pinky finger, which the blueish mulberry seam of the armor ended at the apex of. A dark violet, glammed belt. A utility belt?

You looked back at Zafira, empty handed, who shrugged. "What were you expecting? Don't look at me, I just designed them."

"There's some bracers over here." You saw Anima scurry away in your peripheral to a cabinet by the bathtub. "And some opera-length gloves. They're all orange-y and purple-y, just like Illéa's flag. Oh my gosh, guys, we forgot the skort!"

Anima pulled out what appeared to be, at first, a plum colored, A-line, ruffled skirt. A bit of a break from the protective wear you were receiving. But as she turned it towards you, you could see said ruffles open at the front to reveal a pair of short shorts.

"Oh, that booty short thing?" Marca rubbed her wrists. "I'm still not sure. It doesn't seem tasteful, considering she'll be in front of a bunch of boys."

"Noooo!" Anima whined, shaking the skin-tight shirts mid-air. "They're super durable! I made them out of leather and spider silk! It's all for function!"

"And they're wearing iron speedos over leggings, anyways," Zafira piped up from behind you. "Why not? Anyways, you should suit up and hurry back. Thank us later."

You looked at each gift acutely, and then back to Zafira. You smiled. "You designed all these."

Zafira gave you a look, and glanced over to Marca and Anima. "Uh, what about it?"

Marca had caught on. "She was really into it, too. You're so considerate, Zafira."

It was as though Zafira's face turned inwards. "Oh, god, don't do this."

"Aww." You wrapped your arms around Zafira, who made a sound akin to a rattlesnake. "You're so sweet, Zafira."

"Get off me!"

"Thank you for being so caring towards me and my many talents."

"Ooh, is this a group hug? I love group hugs!" Anima wriggled her way into the gap between you and Zafira stiff-handing your face. She clasped onto Zafira, which provided you an opportunity to grab her. You seized it.

"Ahh!" Zafira shrieked. "Both of you, quit it!"

"Mind if I join?" Marca chirped.

You all suffocated Zafira for a minute or two before she threw you out.

The coronet, as you soon learned, had teardrop-shaped sunstone and sugilite dangling from its sharp, spike-like crests. It was bronze, not gold, but it was gold-dusted and damn close to the coveted sheen.

The click of your kitten heeled shoes down the hall wasn't new, but it felt new.

You'd never felt so dressed up here in a way that made you feel powerful. In the dresses your maids made, you had convinced them to keep floral patterns and gauzy fabric to a minimum. You wanted to appear as professional as possible, but they considered your dream look more queenly than advisory. So your outfits were more boldly glorious than gloriously bold.

In this, though—in full blown armor—you felt a peculiar exhilaration. Verging onto excitement. You'd never felt enthusiasm when it came to a potential to fight until now. Perhaps you liked playing dress up, just not with ball gowns and clip-on earrings.

The boom of Markson's voice echoed through the halls, more demanding and imposing the closer you got to the entrance. You'd have too much fun with these new guys; testing and organizing things...

"Any questions so far?" You heard Markson call. "You."

Whoever Markson has chosen, they were quite brave. "Where's the girl? The Seven?"

If someone rolling their eyes had audio to it, you could hear Markson rolling his. "The "girl" and the "Seven" has a name. If you're here to see Lady [F/n], you'll have to wait in line."

"There's a line?" You grinned.

A silence befell the gangly assembly as you came behind Markson, arms folded behind your back save for a small wave. As your eyes combed the crowd, you noted the slightly hunched figure of Leger. You held your smile, but nodded to him.

After all, thinking about the scene you made still was a punch to the gut of raw, unadulterated embarrassment. But you couldn't show that in any form other than acknowledgement that you were, in fact, citing dumb.

"Everyone, this is Lady [F/n] [L/n] of Panama." Markson placed a hand on your shoulder, and his eyes refused to leave the gaze of the questioner.

"On top of being a Seven and female, she's a competent fighter, polyglot, and one of our Selected." Markson leaned to you as you made a playful curtsy. "As per what sir Friedman has told me."

"He likes to embellish," you said. Markson straightened himself up again.

"I expect you all to treat her with the same respect you'd give any officer. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," they all replied.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all." You moved to smooth your dress, but realized there was nothing to smooth. It was all metal. "I hope what you've seen on T.V hasn't given you any premonition to what you'll be doing here."

Woodwork and Tanner were on each end of the small pack of guards. The newbies' eyes shifted between you and them as they held hands to their mouths.

"What you've seen filmed is an important part of your conditioning," you explained. "But it's only the tip of the iceberg.

"You will also undergo training in things that are unknown to Illéa's general populace-" nobody in the crowd seemed bothered yet. "-And will remain unknown to Illéa's general populace."

A shift in the mood. You smiled. "You know, safety reasons and all that." Expect all of your letters home to be read over and approved.

The guards nodded again. "Great. Now that the formalities are out of the way.."

*

"How long have you two known each other?" Though your arms were crossed over each other, you could grab each soldier by the collar with ease, slamming one onto the ground and sending another flying over your head.

Either way, when both hit the floor they curled up like pillbugs, so you were left to contemplate. You felt Markson's back hit yours.

"Since they were kids," he answered for you. "They mentioned one another in their resumés."

"Oh, Jang and Chae?" You gasped, eyes falling to the coughing pair on the floor. "That's so-"

Two guards jumped at either side of you, throwing fists at you borderline erratically. You blocked each side of you with your very well crafted bracers and high kicked one right beneath his jaw and below his ear. The lucky guy hit the floor with a loud thud.

Zafira, Anima, and Marca were such dolls to give you this little upgrade. You've never felt so comfortable yet so secure in any combative gear.

What should you check for in the new guys you can convince Markson and Clarkson to do? These guards have already done enough paperwork you could demand their firstborn. Testing susceptibility to extremist and espionage persuasion might was probably one of the higher order things.

While honestly xenophobic, for the time being, all guards situated on palace grounds have as little ties outside of Illéa as possible. All have no relatives outside of Illéa, no significant ties with non-Illéan citizens, and at least one immediate family member with Illéan citizenship. It's appropriate with how Illéa is viewed globally, but extreme nevertheless.

On top of being involved in absolutely no foreign activity, you could also check for unpaid bills and criminal charges. Credible, financially well guards would be nice.

Another guard tried to tackle you, which you side-stepped. You heard Mertin and Woodwork laugh in the distance.

"Armed guy at five o'clock." The commander lifted his shield at his side, front facing the ceiling. You took the hint and jumped onto and off the surface, landing between him and the guard.

You're not sure where he got it, but he was holding a scythe. Very interesting find.

Better yet, he wasn't good at using it. After a few blocks with your bracers, you gave his cheek a nice back spin elbow and took the scythe.

This scythe, like many other palace weapons, was ineffectively good-looking. The multicolored spinels lining the grip would be bothersome if it weren't for your gloves.

Twirling it like a baton to ward off surrounding guards and clash with sword-bearing people was fun, though. There were only a few challengers left, as Markson had dealt with the bulk of the unarmed ones.

You saw Leger making a run for it and ramming into Avery, which you first laughed at, then advancing upon them before you heard Markson's voice.

"[L/n]." You turned, and Markson was nodding towards the entrance to the grounds. "His Majesty is here to see you."

Maxon was leaning against a mildly disheveled-looking pillar, waving.

"Oh!" You glanced over at Markson again and tossed him the scythe.

As you did, some feral-looking guy jumped at you, but you dented his stomach with a knee to his celiac plexus. "Alright, I'll tap out. We'll pick back up with tests tomorrow."

Markson caught the scythe and waved you off. Now you were left to contemplate Maxon's appearance in your few seconds to get to him.

Even though he could, the prince rarely interrupted your training sessions. He was either off having tea with bureaucrats or watching you fight. Was this some kind of emergency?

But when you reached Maxon, his voice sounded anything but stressed. "That's new." He looked your outfit up and down, rubbing his chin.

"My maids made it for me, thanks." You flipped your hair. "You should give them all raises."

"With that V-neck? Maybe when you get shot in the chest."

"Hey, the necklace would catch any bullets." And be a helpful choking device.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Maxon purred. "I'm pretty sure you killed that guy, by the way."

"Which one?"

"The one you kneed in the gut."

"First of all, it was the solar plexus, not the gut," you corrected. "Secondly-" you looked over your shoulder and grimaced. The guard was on his news, coughing up phlegm and spitting saliva. "Oh."

Maxon laughed. "Don't laugh!" You squeaked.

"You don't know your own strength, huh?" Maxon smiled. "Anyway, walk with me; I wanted to ask you about the algorithm you were thinking of for predicting rebel attacks."

"What of it-?" As you flung the sweat from your forehead to the floor, a stagger in Maxon's walk became far more noticeable. As well as a lack of protection around the injured foot. "Is your leg alright? Shouldn't you have gotten a cast?"

"Oh, I will be, don't fret." Maxon pulled at his pant leg. "But with the Report tomorrow, we figured it'd be best the fact I was hurt during an ambush doesn't get leaked."

That was perfectly reasonable, yet the medical help Maxon needed but wasn't getting was still irritating. "But there's no cameras around right now. Shouldn't you be wearing one regularly?"

It was then you felt your hair being ruffled. "Aw, what, are you that worried? I assure you, I'm fine. But about your algorithm—you were working on it on the computer in the library, were you not?"

"..I was." You weren't enjoying this subject change.

"How does it work?" So you were on a need-to-know basis, you see.

"Well, a lot of things." The list was moderately long. "It’s a work in progress. I've been studying programming lately, so I've picked up on a lot of new terminology that I haven’t fully figured out. Machine learning, neural networking, q-learning, simulated annealing-"

"I meant how you would access and interpret it," Maxon intervened. "How would you turn it on and what does it mean when it spits back numbers?"

"Um, the computer would do it? I think we'd have to be there for me to tell you." Trying to figure out the right way to explain things without gesturing to thin air as though it were in front of you would be frustrating. "I'm a visual learner. Something corporeal would be nice. What's the problem?"

"Well, for one, having one for the campaigns in New Asia would be nice." Maxon's hands grazed his hair. "And I'm worried for how my father's handling the domestic crises. I'd like to ensure it isn't going haywire."

"I should probably be filling it in on notable events, anyways." You shrugged. "If we want it to stay as efficient as possible, I need to keep it updated on attacks and such."

Maxon didn't appear to be listening to you. His arms were folded against his chest, and he was glancing this way and that. "Father's been avoiding me nowadays. He's iced me out before, but not without reason. What did I do this time? And a day before the Report!"

"He's awestruck by how wondrous of a monarch-to-be you are," you reassured the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder. "We all are."

Maxon tried and failed to shrug your hand off. "God, don't start."

Instead, you reared behind the prince and slapped your other hand on his other shoulder. "I think you're just a bit nervy."

"Nervy," Maxon repeated.

"Having a higher amount of nerves than is the usual," you reiterated. You started to shake him from side to side, but only slightly. "Nervous, if you will."

"This is making me nervous," he mentioned.

"What's up? Is it about the Report? Any of the girls? Legitimately your father?"

"It is legitimately my father!"

"But when you're actually perturbed by something, you tend to run your hands through your hair," you pointed out, returning to his side. "And talk in run-on sentences. You do seem bothered by your father's behavior, but you're also simultaneously showing other signs of stress unrelated to your paternal dilemma. It seems separate from another, domineering w-"

In a brief upwards glance, Maxon's bug-eyed look had slapped you in the face.

You shrunk, that's for sure. Yet, as if to enhance the irony, you felt yourself tugging at whatever loose strands of hair that had freed themselves from your updo. "Sorry, I didn't-"

"Then what do you think is bothering me?" Maxon asked quietly.

Was that rhetorical? "Um." The two of you turned a corner in just enough time to recollect yourself. "You're serious?"

"Sure."

"Oh." Still a little uncomfortable with that answer. "I think.." maybe you should add some humor? "You like one of the Selected, and you'd rather be hanging out with her than me."

Maxon chuckled, glancing to you banefully. "Do you really want to know?"

You hit the nail? You covered your mouth. "Who?"

"I never said yes." Maxon waves a finger in front of you that soon moved to adjust his tie. "Don't freak out just yet."

"But you never say I don't know to something that's wrong!" You could hear your voice rising. "Who? Kriss? Or has Elise finally warmed up to you?"

Maxon made a close to inhuman noise. "Okay, no and no. I like someone, but neither of those two."

"Then give me some hints! Come on!" You rubbed your hands together. Maxon was refusing to look at you. "Just one!"

"But they're all huge," he complained. "You're probably already close to getting her."

"One? A tiny one?" You grabbed Maxon's arm, half-formally and half-informally. "Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

With the shake of his head, Maxon caved. "She's, uh, funny."

You felt all of your imaginary buildup come crashing down. "Maxon, that's nothing!" You released his arm. "Talk about anticlimactic.. wait."

Click. You gazed up at Maxon, whose roselike face was held high. "Oh my god, is it America?"

Maxon said nothing. He was persevering in not looking at you even when you started to bounce.

It felt as though something had lit up in your chest. You couldn't name the sensation as positive or negative, but it was certainly intense (hence, according to Schachter and Singer's two factor theory, it wasn't an emotion). Still, you felt the need to look around, to run over to walls to make sure everything was still material. See if anyone was eavesdropping.

"Max!" You channeled everything to your body until were basically skipping. "Max! Who knew the Selection wouldn't only be a precursor to your upcoming dystopian lifestyle? I'm so proud of you!" You swatted his upper arm, perhaps too hard, as he flinched afterwards.

"You're ridiculous," Maxon giggled, rubbing his arm. "I-"

"You two." Hearing voice took you aback. Watching the rosy color dusting Maxon's face drain away, leaving only an exsanguinated white, gave way to a real, far more negative emotion.

You followed Maxon's eyes, and King Clarkson's stare impaled you. "Let's chat."

*

"An upwards of 86% of intelligence is attributable to genetics," King Clarkson said, sawing through his demi-glace drenched veal.

You stared at your array of forks, spoons, knives, and picks. Their edges glinted in the opulent candlelight. You dare not move them.

"I addressed you," King Clarkson said.

The reactions of the royal family that sat across from and next to you was a mixed bag. Queen Amberly, at the other side of the table, tried to smile. Besides one or two nibbles, her tangelo foie gras remained untouched. Maxon's head hung low—he would only huff. Occasionally twitch.

You'd feel much better with either parties at the heads of the table, but instead you were only two feet from King Clarkson's wrath.

You swallowed. "From what can be reified of it, your Highness. The range is typically defined as between 40% and 60%.. suppose it'd be 50% if you split the difference, your Highness."

The cheshire cheese that laid atop your salad plate remained untouched. Maxon took one of your neatly placed hands in his own as King Clarkson continued his eugenics rant. The generous serving of casu marzu bestowed upon him was in mint condition.

"Figures such as those are why the posterity of famed, legendary men stay in power by rite of passage. Their effectiveness is assured by their lineage. Their blood."

His tenderloin was extra rare, bordering blue.

"The poor stay poor for the same rationale." From your two hands on your lap, Maxon squeezed the one closest to him. "They fail to serve society, just as their forefathers did."

You didn't know what you were eating. Something flambé. "Seldom times does one overcome their heritage. Intellectual superiority and caste placement are tied, and few vary from a trend so inborn.

"However." You looked up to see King Clarkson gazing at his wife. "I am willing to admit these anomalies exist. There could not be genetic variation without mutations. You, Lady [F/n], are one of them."

Too occupied riding waves of nausea to hear them, his royal highness' comment fell on deaf ears. Maxon, thankfully, squeezed your hand, and you rose to lugubrious attention.

A pair of pellucid, steel blue eyes bore into you.

Their owner leaned forward, hands clasped together. "I wonder if your original caste truly was what you’ve put on paper, Lady [F/n]. Your acumen belies a number so low as Seven."

Perhaps you could rupture your aorta with your oyster fork. "A Three, your Highness."

"I assumed so," he said, dabbing at his stubble with his napkin. "I was sure you were above a Four. It is a shame a young lady such as yourself ended up in such pitiful circumstance due to your parent's shortcomings."

"Ever since the breach in the library, the your conversations have been recorded," he said with the roll of a sturdy wrist. "I listened to them multiple times while deliberating what to do with you. My conclusion was that you are more fit for a position of power than almost all of my chancellors, perhaps my own son."

Maxon flinched, as did you.

"For instance. My finance controllers were never interested in regulating the quality of Illéan goods, nevertheless training skilled workers," Clarkson cited. "I assume these ideas stemmed from you."

After realizing he was waiting for you to respond, you nodded, neck stiff so as to not keep your head ducked down "Yes, your Highness."

"Your mercantilistic approach is commendable." You did not need this right now. "Providing loans, subsidies, and tax exemptions for small businesses and entrepreneurs in newer industries is a fine proposal.

"However, the high tariffs on imports would lead to foreign retaliation and catalyze the depletion of our funds amidst war with New Asia."

"Funds for a pyrrhic war lacking any economic point d'appui?" You muttered for Maxon's ears only. He nodded, but it looked more like a short dip of his head. "Here's something to consider: end it."

If King Clarkson overheard you, he said nothing. From beneath your hair, you watched his eyes slide over to Maxon.

"I went over the concept of re-nuclearization with the usage of thorium given the bans on plutonium and uranium scarcity she wrote under your name. The academia's only contention was the safety risks concerning the nature of the fission reactors, but I did some research. The continuous exudation of radon-220 and 226 worries me."

"It's not anymore of a radiological danger than what we're used to now," Maxon insisted, picking at his coq au vin. He then added, a bit more meekly. "And I made that report."

"Then I trust she coauthored it," King Clarkson said. "Nothing that insightful has ever come out of you."

Maxon withered away, and his father's attention returned to you. "Clark." Amberly seized his upper arm.

The sound of grinding teeth ricocheted in the back of your mouth. Do not say a word.

"You are not in trouble, Lady [F/n]." King Clarkson pushed his wife off of him, smoothing down his lapels. "The opposite, matter of fact."

He leaned forward, and you leaned back. "I like the way you think."

He raised a stemless goblet with a smile. The liquid in held was too dark and thick to be any kind of wine. "My people have been overstepping their boundaries. Advisors should advise. The governed should be governed.

"Those in power know what's best because they are predisposed to, and they should not have to listen to a populace where 25% are illiterate."

"Not by any failure on their behalf, sir," Maxon started again.

"In one of your conversations with my son you related me to an extolled king of France." King Clarkson didn't take his cold eyes off you. "You were right to. I want to have absolute rule over Illéa. I want to be it's emperor."

He set down his fork. "But even you meddle where you shouldn't. Planting fantastical ideas in my son's mind, considering laughing gas for castle security, playing detective with enemy spies... no doubt sleeping around with my-"

"Sir," Maxon barked. You could only grind your teeth in silence. Do not say a word. "[F/n] doesn't sleep around with any of your people!"

Yet again, Maxon's voice fell on deaf ears. "So, I have an offer for you.

"You will participate in the Selection. You will smile for the camera. Keep your image flawless, and you will stay until the top three."

You looked up.

"You will be exempt from parts of the superfluous mandates of the Selection—silly things that keep the girls thinking they are important. Instead, you will shadow an advisor of my choice."

He's serious?

"Furthermost, you will keep my son in line. Protect him from attack if the time comes again." Clarkson almost smiled, but not quite. The comment seemed more perfunctory than anything. "Once he chooses his wife, you will be appointed to his chief minister, as the two of you have discussed."

Wanting to gauge Maxon's reaction, you snuck a glance at him. He wasn't looking at King Clarkson. Before you could follow his stare, his father went on.

"Or." He pointed the steak knife in his hand to you as though motioning to a fly. "You could refuse, be dismissed after the Report, and found dead in Panama, say, five weeks later."

Maxon's chair fell backward with how abruptly he stood, knocking his champagne flute onto the ground. Amberly rose as well, but not in enough time.

In a blur of beige tuxedos, Maxon punched his father square between the cheek and jaw.

King Clarkson was sent so far backwards that he hit the wall a good yard behind his seat and slid down. For a grand, golden millisecond, the king of Illéa was on the floor.

But he was back up in no time. "You-" King Clarkson advanced, partially covering the side of his face. He wrung up his sleeve. "You fr-"

King Clarkson was not light enough on his feet, however, to get to Maxon before you did. You latched onto his arm and pulled him out of the reach of King Clarkson's claws.

"Max-" you almost laughed. "Maxon-"

"How dare you!" Maxon screeched, and you were similarly almost lifted off the ground with how relentlessly Maxon fought against you. "How DARE you!"

Amberly had grabbed King Clarkson by now, who had started walking around the table as though he were encircling prey. "Honey!" You weren't sure if she was addressing her husband or son.

"You've crossed the line. You'd have her killed because she runs the kingdom better than you? You tyrant! You child! You- you abuser!"

The king was bearing his teeth. But that wasn't the worst part; Amberly was still conjoined to him at his hip, though her olive skin had rotted to the abelon gray found in concrete. Her arms shook.

"You insolent boy," King Clarkson's voice remained cool, but underneath the shadows casted unto his face by his disheveled hair, the look in his eyes made the hairs on the back of your neck dance. "All these harlots and-"

"I'm useful, your Highness!" You insisted above the clamor, fighting to keep Maxon at bay while was close to snapping your arm off. "I promise!"

Clarkson looked like if he had access to his dessert spoon he'd gouge your eye out. "Oh, pray tell, you whore. You've-"

"Whore?" Maxon screeched, and you nearly belched from the yank Maxon gave towards his father. "Whore?! Do you hear yourself? You sound just like grandmother! That's what you are, isn't it? Abby's little brat!"

"I've kept your legislature rubber stamp! And that computer can predict every move the rebels are going to make with astounding accuracy!" You countered just as loudly, hopefully over Maxon's flurry of insults.

"-And your little fling with that-"

"-Advice to your son has-"

"-Loathe your lottery and I lo-"

"Maxon!" You commanded. He quieted down, and you returned to managing his father. "I train the knighthood and their morale high. I amuse the press and keep your matters out of the news cycle. I handle rats in the palace. My caste keeps the lower classes placated."

By now, the emotions were creeping up on you. You heard your voice, without any input from yourself, raise in intensity.

"And your advisors adore me!" King Clarkson cringed. "If you didn't care for the peasant uprisings you'd start if you killed me, you'd have to go through your enraged delegates! You can't kill me, even if you wanted to!"

In due time, King Clarkson's stiff, animalistic stance crumpled. The crown atop his bristled locks fell askew with an encouraging tug from Amberly. Her own, jeweled headdress laid tilted. She whispered something in his ear. In the same, sluggish tempo, your word vomit ceased.

Much less slowly, you were pulled into Maxon's chest. He raised a fist again. "And, by god, the next time you mention something as barbaric as that to my face again, I'll aim for your teeth."

You were escorted out of the tiny little room located in the middle. The dinners were left to go cold. 

"Jesus Christ," Maxon dragged you along the marble floor like a sack of fruit. "He's insane. Absolutely insane. When I'm king I swear on my life I'm sending him to the islands."

"He didn't mean it," you tried. "He knows the cons outweigh the pros."

"Does that matter?" Maxon's voice rose. "He talked of it. You might be willing to endure such rants, but toying with the idea having you killed right in front of me? No."

You weren't very aware of your surroundings at the moment. Which you didn't like. "Where are we going?"

Maxon's footprints, marked by a nacre sheen of pearl infused wine, looked like the work of hallucinogens in a shower. "Not to dinner, that's for damn sure."

Funny. As he spoke, the two of you transversed an intersection of sorts between the dining and mars hall, almost trampling Bariel and Celeste. Judging by the amber glow now coating the halls, it appears they were arriving fashionably late to their respective meals.

They tried to curtsy, but Maxon wasn't having it. "Excuse us!" He, hopefully incidentally, spat, and pushed past their two women barricade.

You decided not to look back on the rudiments of their red rover formation and focus on the stairs Maxon was heading towards. An angry-looking prince snapping at two suitors and pulling another one up a flight of stairs didn't bear good implications.

Okay, now you for sure had no idea where you were going. "Maxon, if you could just-"

"I'm thinking," he cut you off. The two of you had stopped at the top of the stairs. Maxon was staring off into the winding halls of the new floor, probably dissociating on some level.

"There," he said to nobody in particular, and sprinted into the leftmost corridor.

With every step you could feel your ankles coming dangerously close to rolling, and you weren't enjoying the suspense. "Well, I'm wearing the product of the apotheosis of stiletto culture over here!" You exclaimed harshly. "So if y-"

Maxon turned around, picked you up, turned back around, and kept running.

It took you a short moment to register that series of events. When you did, you found yourself fuming.

"Aagh!" You groaned, letting your arms flap in the air. "For what reason?"

"Because you're slow." You will admit, being in Maxon's arms was a much more effective mode of transportation, even considering his leg. Oh, his leg.

"Your leg!" You borderline shrieked. "You should be resting!"

The only thing you could see given the extreme position you had of Maxon's face was a rictus, blindingly white grin. "Here we are."

Using the foot you very vividly remembered being broken, Maxon kicked the foot of a wall within a dark chamber he had somewhere turned into. The wall caved like sand put through a sieve.

The prince crouched down and slid you inside. You were surprised to find yourself slide down and your feet touch some form of floor. Polished, at that.

"There." Maxon's shifting eyes glimmered as he dusted his hands off. "What do you think? I used to come here all the time when I was little."

You looked around. You couldn't see anything. "..Bereft."

Maxon smiled, but corners of his lips sagged. "I don't want you in your room tonight. Knowing father, he'll send somebody to kick you when you're asleep."

"What?" You accosted. "You're overreacting."

"Too bad."

"What about you?" You demanded. "And your leg!"

"That's because he's my dad. I'll be fine," Maxon insisted. There was a quirk in his voice that worried you. "Don't worry. I just need you safe, okay? Who would to help me with military endeavors and bureaucratic damage control if not you?"

It was then you became acutely aware of the being in front of you.

The prince of Illéa, with his honey and mulberry color palette brushed with rosé. The embodiment of lucky heritage, sure, but his makeup was inherently.. regal. For one reason or another. The blood that ran through his veins was really, and truly, royal. Through family and mind.

You can't have somebody like that become their father's whipping boy for the night. And here he was, about to pull away and seal his fate.

You cupped his cheeks as soon as he tried to retract his head from the small door. "Maxon."

The prince froze, so you softened your hold on his face. You didn't know how to word your fear for him. Not without over-explaining or demeaning his father. Not without condemning yourself for one reason or another.

But you knew one thing you wanted to say. "Don't go."

Because you didn't want him to go. Because of what you just said, but also because you didn't want to be alone here.

Maxon stared at you. His eyes, brown sugar in the harsh light that framed his shoulders, sparkled. An odd kind. Like how one would ogle at some museum specimen.

That did not make you feel anymore secure in your wishes, but before you could speak up and make a fool of yourself in the process, Maxon took your hands in his, rubbing them.

"Sweetness, I have to," he sighed.

What? Your cheeks burnt to a crisp. Sweetness? What gave him the right?

He gave you a kiss on the top of your hand and began to pull away. You hung onto his remaining fingers like a bone does a tendon.

"Your punch," you said. "It was kind of expert looking. A corkscrew blow, maybe?"

Maxon's nose wrinkled, and his smile grew. He snorted, which sounded siren-esque at the time. The Odyssey kind.

"A what?" He edged, and reached in to pinch your cheek. "You can't keep me here forever, [F/n]."

No. No! Buy time! "Schreave père is a little-" no! Restart! "I can understand- milquetoast- alexithymia-"

"Lethologica?" He teased, and finally stood up. "Goodnight, [F/n]." He shrugged off his coat and pushed it into your arms. "Sorry about all that."

The crawl space door slithered to a close, locking out all light. You lay there, tan coat in your lap, stunned.

What, and now you'd have to sleep here?


	12. First Impressions Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now the reader just needs to not make a fool of herself on live television.

Oh good god, where are you? As you stirred awake, two things rose to the forefront of your mind.

One! As you tried to sit up on both hands, it came to your attention that your right hand was limp against the petrified wood. It was so weird—not even paresthesia, just dead. Numb, too. It was like it had marinated in lidocaine while you slept.

Seriously. You were trying to flex your fingers for a solid minute, and you could feel the muscles in your arm all the way up to your wrist obey, but your hand? Unresponsive.

Fortunately, before you could really begin to panic, a wave of pins and needles washed over it.

Anyways, two! Oh, right, Maxon tucked you away here. Probably without informing Marca, Zafira, or Anima. And you had his coat.

You wondered how dinner was in the dining hall last night. Nice and lighthearted without the presence of the royal heads, you suspected.

What should you do? You rubbed your eyes. Wait here for Maxon? Get out and go to your room? How would everyone react to the coat? Should you just leave it here?

Even though you won't say you didn't want to take it with you for reasons confidential to you, you neatly folded the unbleached titanium cloth into a square and laid it in the corner farthest from the trapdoor.

Maxon wasn't stupid. You fiddled with where the door would be if you knew how to activate it. He would've told Zafira and Anima and Marca that you wouldn't be returning tonight. Make up some excuse.

Okay, how does this thing work? Do you have to run your hand over some area of the wall or what? Maybe it's a side or something.

Or a corner. You pressed onto each vertex from top to bottom, left to right, and-? Oh, no. Never mind. You were fooling yourself. Did Maxon expect you to sit here?

Maxon. You gazed back to the suit and shook your head. Sweetness.

You shook your head, genuinely upset. God, just stop. God, don't start thinking like that now. He's just a flirt, and he'll be your boss pretty soon.

You ran your fingers along the top of the wall and felt what you could only describe as topographic discrepancy near the center left.

Maybe? You pushed anything and everything in its vicinity until you heard a minute click.

Lo! The wall door collapsed in on itself, hallelujah and all, but a little too brazenly. The opening was the width of about two full grown men, and the process was anything but inaudible. As the harsh lighting poured in, you were temporarily blinded.

"[F/n]?" That voice sounded familiar. You rubbed your eyes.

"Gideon?"

"Were you trying to open the door to the crawl space?" He looked behind you. "It can only be opened with the royal family's or a small group of advisors' fingerprints."

What the hell? This thing has Touch ID? You skimmed the edges of the door for any indications (which you would find none of) as you crept out. "Well, that's embarrassing."

"Maxon told me what happened," Gideon said as he helped you up. "Though I think he overreacted with keeping you here for the night."

"I agree." You dusted yourself off. "And it cost me a decent night's sleep before the Report."

Your own words seemed to slap you in the face. Right. Today was the Report, and...

Okay, whatever. You'll call an audible on your project. Your little presentation you'd been working on does not mesh well with and will not trump over King Clarkson's request to, in a nutshell, not pull anything out of the ordinary.

Even originally, you knew he'd be mad. You'd be viewed as less of a Selected and more of a palace worker, which would no doubt irk him. But today was the day you were going to build upon your foundation you have so carefully set, and now..

"I'll see you to your room. Breakfast was optional this morning, and I'm sure your maids are worried." Gideon reached around you and tapped the corner of the entrance way. It closed.

"Thank you."

You still pondered as you walked. You supposed you could hint at it and reveal everything later on during an interview, but no more product pitch. Should you trash it? No. No! You can't. Then what should you do?

And, suddenly, the comfortable but slightly tense silence between the two of you was broken like a wishbone. "I thought you'd like to know that his Highness chose me as the advisor you'll be shadowing."

Christ, you almost tripped. "You're serious?" You stuttered. "When- when do I start?"

"I'm assuming tomorrow morning." He watched the Women's Room come in and out of sight. "I worry what will happen to your image with this.."

He had a point. First popping in every once in awhile to help the guards, and now this. Days would blur by. But still..!

"Gideon." You grabbed his arm. "Do you think you could help me out with something?"

*

"So that was my plan." Gideon crossed and uncrossed his legs for the umpteenth time, adjusting the pillows underneath him on the loveseat. "And also why I've been playing cards at Minerva's lounge every night.

"I know you've been tasked with enough things outside your pay grade already, and I already had everything figured out with or without an angel investor, so I'm only asking for some advice on execution."

Gideon twisted a charcoal strand of hair. "Well, I think it's for the best that you can't unveil it on or around the Report. For you to turn type A right when the Selected are expected to be fully invested in the prince's love life would neither benefit your or the crown's goals."

You sighed. "That's true. But a schism will have to happen eventually. I was thinking this could be the turning point; where I can open a magazine and see talk of me—pleasant, yes, but knowing I'm not queen material."

Gideon nodded. "I'd say seeing that you're referring to the Selection as one for a queen rather than a princess, you're still ahead of most, but I see what you mean."

You smiled in your brief pacing. "Then do you think your omniscience could guide me?"

Gideon returned the smile with the shake of his head. "I'm anything but omniscient, but I'll certainly try." Yay! "But don't say I didn't warn you if I steer you down the wrong path."

"Ugh, I don't know why you're being so pessimistic." You gave a pompous huff. "This is marvelous news. We sh-"

The door to your room opened, and you heard three collective gasps.

"Milady!"

"Miss [F/n]?"

"You again?"

"Uh oh," Gideon said, peering behind you. "Good evening, ladies."

"Uh oh?" You scoffed. "It's not like we're scheming."

"Milady!" Something slammed into you, coming close to snapping your neck with the force applied. You doubled over, only to have a pair of arms catch your waist. "Oh, we were so worried! His Majesty only came to us a quarter to midnight to tell us you'd be away!"

"I wasn't." You could see a shock of vantablack emerge in your peripheral and a hand on your shoulder. "Surprisingly, Marca was in the worst shape out of all of us. Even after the prince came by she was all fidgety."

With who you presumed to be Zafira and Anima upon you at the moment, Marca remained behind.

"Heh, yeah," she said, her tone battling a small quiver. "I was a bit anxious."

"What's going on?" Anima released you from her abnormally strong grip given her body mass index. "Why's sir Friedman here?"

"We were going over a program I had in mind." You patted the brunette's head. "After all, what type of previous Seven would I be if I stayed here without doing anything for lower castes?"

"While it isn't my forte, I'd be happy to provide my assistance." Gideon rose from the snack-sized sofa. "If you have all the monetary need-bes, I can help with managing your campaign of sorts."

Which you do, of course. You clapped. "Wonderful. Thanks again for your help—I know it'd be a much cleaner process if I just donated all of it, but I want to see if this could ameliorate some things."

"I trust your judgement, Lady [F/n]." Gideon slid past your trio (plus Marca) and to the door. He waved as poised as one could wave. "Good luck on the Report."

"Thank you." You dipped your head, and as though shot in the head, a memory pinged in the back of your head. Primed the the Report yet again, but this time not about some passion project you couldn't announce.

The intervention. "You and me, after the Report. I need you to bring Gavril to the grand fountain in the winter garden."

You wanted to slap yourself. How could you forget? Was that still in effect, or unofficially cancelled with King Clarkson's warning? And what's the probability you'd see Maxon today to confirm either or? Slim to none.

That wasn't good. Should you still try to lure Gavril to the grand fountain? If Maxon was a no show, you could always play it off and plug your renovation project in. But would you.. ugh, did you want to risk your rapport with the guy for a plan with debatable fruition?

"Hello?" You heard a snap by your ear. "Earth to Lady [F/n]? You might as well get hop in the bath, because we'll have to work throughout the afternoon for the Report tonight."

"Don't worry her more, Z," Anima tutted and patted your arm. "Milady, have you eaten? We can order something from the kitchens if you're hungry."

"What? No, don't," Marca interjected. "She needs to fit in the dress."

"Oh, right," Anima's voice dropped to an inaudible tremor in the air. "The dress."

And the silence swallowed the four of you whole. Anima's eyes were shifting between you and the doors to your wardrobe, whereas Marca would follow her line of sight and gnaw on her bottom lip until it took the appearance of an inflamed rosebud.

"So- ow." Anima's hold on a massage bar slipped, and a mung bean wedged itself underneath the nail on your big toe. "What's up with my Report dress?"

Apparently, the mere mentioning of it was enough to push Anima on the edge of a heart attack. "Your-" she coughed, squeezing crème rinse out of the bottle she held. "Y-y-your Report dress? What's wrong with it? Wherever did you get the idea that something was wrong with it? Your Report dress?"

Marca, who was also wielding lavender soap in the vicinity of your appendages, on the other hand, tended enough to get a crushed almond snagged on one of her hangnails, muttering a colorful string of words beneath her breath. "Well, it's not your fault, miss, but we're a bit disappointed in ourselves."

"Disappointed?" Zafira fleered. "I'm mad. I told you guys lighter blues weren't her color, but no, you had to succumb to peer pressure."

"You guys made me a sky blue dress?" You prodded. "Why? You guys always say I look better with cool tertiaries."

Zafira held her arms akimbo, eyes livid. "Because Maxon's favorite wears blue, and apparently we need to make it blatantly obvious we're following her lead. Seriously, when has being part of the crowd ever helped anybody? There's nothing exciting about unoriginality."

"When has being a try hard?" Marca buoyed. "There's nothing enchanting with bragging about how not-like-other-girls you are."

"You guys, stop fighting," Anima's meek voice urged. "Milady shouldn't have to worry. She'll look wonderful in any dress we give her."

You're more worried with how valid each of their points are, yet how painfully they juxtapose themselves. "Sounds like a double-edged sword to me. If I blend in I'm a bland cookie-cutter, and if I'm out there I'm a weird pick-me."

"So we might as well do what we want and put you in a dress that actually suits you." Zafira was staring daggers at Marca, crunching the bobby pins between her knuckles.

You knew Marca was probably past the point of no return with her decision, so you turned to the remaining and sole fence-sitter. "Anima, be honest. Do you think there's a better dress I could wear for the Report than this blue one?"

Anima, standing in the doorway to the bathroom, straightened her back. "Um." Her doe eyes were glistening. "Um, I-.. I'm sorry, I..."

Everybody was holding their breaths. Including Anima. "Uh. I'm- I'm terribly sorry, milady, but I.." she sucked in her cheeks. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry, milady, but.. but I think we could've d-done b-better."

"It's been decided," you concluded. Anima let out a hybrid of a wheeze and a squeak.

"What? No! No, no, no. What has been decided? I feel horrid for even saying that!" Anima covered her eyes, wailing. "I promise you, milady, you look breathtaking in everything! Ahh!"

"Majority rules." Zafira, in her sage-like wisdom, nodded as she dusted off her hands. "So we have a bunch of jewel tones that'd look great."

"I'd still like a minimalistic elegance about it." Which could preferably be associated with professional attire more than queenly, but you couldn't say that. "No saturated hues—nothing overly glamorous. Bold would be a better word."

"You all are making a big mistake," Marca warned.

"Whatever." Zafira traipsed to the bath. "Anima, do you want to handle our lady's request?"

Anima was already circling the main area of your bedroom, tacking away at something. "Oh my gosh, what's the line for the royal cobblers, again?"

"By the way," Zafira mused aloud. "You don't have to hide the scars on your stomach."

You were wrestling your arm out of the fabric of your sleeves. You paused. "Sorry?"

"Oh, right." Marca hit herself on the head. "We were meaning to tell you earlier. We saw everything when you were painting on top of your bed."

Huh. You let your hands fall. "Oh. Um, okay."

"It's a shame, though. Your arms are all boyish and muscular and now your waist's all marked up. Is there anything on you that's in good condition?" There goes your yen to provide context for the weirder blemishes.

Furthermost, you were not going to take that criticism. You crossed your arms. "Okay, that is literally a beauty standard with no practical basis. If you wanted an apology for being fit and having gone through some stuff, you aren't getting one."

"Ha!" A gale of laughter escaped Zafira's chest. "What's she gonna do, Marca? Un-scar herself?"

Marca clicked her tongue and shot Zafira an icy glare. "Hmph. All I'm saying is to appeal to your audience. Try to be a little more feminine."

For the remainder of the day, you were pampered for the Report with sizzling questions and equally scathing remarks.

You have to admit, given how successfully you had managed to bring down your nerves about the event, Zafira, Anima, and Marca had perfected their craft in rekindling your anxieties. You could hardly breathe by the time you actually had to go on television.

From what you watched of the Report, the set had been rearranged typical first introduction style—everything the same besides two stylized chairs at the center. Unlike the first Report in King Clarkson's Selection, where he had chosen the backdrop and drapery in hues of red and gold, Maxon had went with blue and silver.

And, surely enough, everybody was wearing different shades of blue. You stuck out like a literal sore thumb.

Honestly, to the viewers, it'd look like you missed the memo on how everyone was supposed to wear blue for the first Report. If they went from greenest to purplest analogous colors, you were dead.

Just as you were stealing one of the front seats before anyone else could, you felt someone grab your arm.

"[F/n] [M/n] [L/n]?"

"Natalya Mikhailovna Luca?" You whipped around, and gasped. "Whoa!"

Natalie's platinum blonde hair had become a trail of sheer stardust—a magnificently waterfall of snow white highlights and golden undertones that emanated a faint, silvery glow.

Effortlessly fanned out behind her was so did dress; a ball gown of a rich, luxurious cornflower blue that moved as delicately as watercolor against her frame. Her jewelry of lapis lazuli and sapphire eyes were bordering hypnotic.

Thankfully, you snapped out of this trance after hearing a nervous giggle from Natalie.

"Oh my god!" You hooted, grabbing her hands. "You look breathtaking!!" Your faze dropped to your empty chunk of seats. "Sit down, sit down! Next to me! I swear, if Maxon doesn't marry you, I will!"

"Ahh! Thank you so much!" If there was one thing Natalie did, she amplified the chirpier facet of you that you'd save for performances or other social events. "You look just as stunning!"

"Hey, where's Kriss?" But the enabling was good, not at all draining. You were thankful she'd be able to supply you with energy tonight. "You guys are almost always together."

"Here!" You heard in front of you. You looked up.

"Kriss!" Kriss' oaky brown hair had been peppered with glamor; an added wave framing her oval face and pooling over her shoulders like a swath of roses and a dash of glitter nearly giving the impression of a crown atop her head.

She was wearing tiny, simple earrings, maybe of druzy picture jasper with methodically placed enhydros. Her signature necklace-

The northern star. All giddiness in you was snuffed out. Drained like a desiccated fruit. "You look..."

"Great, I know." Kriss looked over her shoulder to something you couldn't see. "Don't mind what I said back there, I needed to get into a mindset."

"You both look so pretty!" Natalie gushed. "Girl crush!"

"You have a girl crush?" Switch flipped. You turned to Natalie. "You're actually making me blush! I have an actual crush!"

The three of you (even though you felt a bit uneasy around Kriss) went back and forth on how pretty one another looked until it was time to start the show.

"This is going to be so bad." Kriss shook her head. "Barely any of us have ever interacted with Maxon twice. What are we supposed to say up there?"

"Aw, I'm sure we'll figure it out," Natalie reassured her. "It's not like Gavril will put us on the spot or anything."

"Good evening, ladies." Oh, shit. You and Natalie jumped, whereas Kriss snickered at the display. Before you could get anything out, everyone had already readdressed the prince.

You looked to where the thrones sat, surely enough, there was the current Schreaves.

As Maxon made his way up the podium, you tried your best to catch his eye without disturbing his father. Was this whole rebel operation still a go? The prince, however, wouldn't take his eyes off the cameras.

His countenance was calm, though you could see his hands roaming around his waist, right below where the film would cut. His thumbs would hook to the corners of his pockets and be instantaneously retracted, and then go and twist his belt loops, and then smooth his pants, and then the cycle would restart.

Because he couldn't mess with his hair. You'd be fine with the external manifestation of nerves if every part of his arm below the teres major wasn't moving, as well.

Just then, Maxon turned to you. Well, at the forefront of your mind were his fidgeting hands in that moment, and thus you patted your lap with your own. Maxon cocked a brow, looked down, and his hands froze.

He looked back to you and smiled.

Wait. Kriss and Gavril. You tried to signal your concerns—tilting your head to Kriss with wide eyes—but for some ungodly reason Maxon couldn't decipher your messages. His smile only morphed into a perplexed frown, and then his focus returned to his broadcast.

Dammit. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Illéa. I know that tonight is an exciting night for us all as the country gets to finally hear from the twenty-five remaining women in the Selection. I can't begin to express how excited I am for you to meet them. I'm sure you will all agree that any one of these amazing young ladies would be a wonderful leader and future princess.

"But before we get to that, I'd like to announce a new project I am working on that is of great importance to me. Having met these ladies, I've been exposed to the wide world outside our palace, a world that I rarely get to see. I've been told of its remarkable goodness and made aware of its unimaginable darkness. Through speaking to these women, I've embraced the importance of the masses outside these walls. I have been woken to the suffering of some of our lower castes, and I intend to do something about it."

Ohh! You sat up, somehow more than you already were. Well, after hearing that, you wouldn't dare to introduce your own little project. That'd be a complete and utter steal of thunder.

"It will be at least three months before we can set this up properly, but around the new year, there will be public assistance for food in every Province Services Office. Any Five, Six, Seven, or Eight may go there any evening for a free, nutritious meal. Please know that these women before you have all sacrificed some or all of their compensation to help fund this important program. And while this assistance may not be able to last forever, we will keep it running as long as we can."

"Oh my god," you whispered.

Luckily the cameras weren't panned to you all, or else the entirety of Illéa would've seen you wiggling in your seat. All the while Natalie shook you left to right, raising and sending her arm down on your back and stopping only an inch from slapping it; even Kriss patted your shoulder.

"I feel that no good leader can let the masses go unfed. Most of Illéa is comprised of these lower castes, and we have overlooked these people far too long. That is why I am moving forward and why I am asking others to join me. Twos, Threes, Fours... the roads you drive on don't pave themselves. Your houses aren't cleaned by magic. Here is your opportunity to acknowledge that truth by donating at your local Province Services Office."

"You!" Natalie wasn't whispering, but she was speaking through her teeth, and voice was so high in pitch it was barely audible anyway. "You!"

In harmony with Natalie, Kriss lilted a quiet "You," too.

"By birth you have been blessed, and it is time to acknowledge that blessing. I will have further updates as this project progresses, and I thank you all for your attention."

Your eyes flew to Maxon's parents. Amberly was drowning in maternal hubris, whereas.. King Clarkson was staring directly at you.

You looked away. "But now..."

Before it could get anymore emotional, Maxon had returned to his seat. Good, you might've almost maybe perhaps nearly dry cried.

Gavril looked more grateful than anyone else you could see, which both aroused and pacified your suspicion of him.

The announcer pranced onto the stage. "Thank you so much for that introduction, your Majesty! Very well done! If this whole prince thing doesn't work out, you should consider a job in entertainment.

"People of Illéa, do we have a treat for you! This evening we'll be getting the inside scoop from each of these young women. We know you've been dying to meet them and hear how things are coming along with our Prince Maxon, so tonight... we're just going to ask! Let's get started with miss Celeste Newsome of Clermont!"

So the interviews started. Some of the girls (also known as Celeste and Bariel) knew how to play the game well enough to intimidate the rest of the Selected but bewitch the viewers, while others only maintained an enviable poise.

But the best amongst you all by far were the more endearing than admirable candidates. You could tell by the coos of the invited crowds that the mild ditziness and cheerful personalities of Marlee and Emmica, some Kriss and Natalie resonated with the masses.

They undoubtedly stole the public's hearts, and thus the pools. After all, who doesn't enjoy a genuinely nice, bit nervous, girl next door? These were the girls who they could relate too—who they think could represent them.

It was better to be that way, to be yourself, than to try for an elegance or formidability you don't have. Naturally, they weren't doing so purposefully. They're just good people, and hence the most threatening players in the game.

It was fun to watch them just wipe the floor up there and fathom how someone could be so congenial and well built for the public eye. What's their MBTI?

"Miss [F/n] [L/n] of Panama!"

Thankfully, you didn't have to stress over acting so perfectly. Given your current goal of prime minister in mind, people wouldn't expect you to be blithe and bubbly. They'd never hear about you on the general news, either, so making a starlet impression wasn't pivotal.

You rose just in time for Elise to clap hazardously close to your ear and saunter down to Gavril and his religious-looking chairs.

Okay. Elegant. Bold. Confident. Perhaps a bit cold. More so than warm. You got this.

As you sat down and shook Gabriel's hand, a harsh glare from the star on his lapel apparently demanded your attention. Your eyes dropped for a millisecond for inspection. You could only assume it to be Polaris.

Wow, Gavril. Nice rebel emblem. Let's get a zoom in on that.

"So, Lady [F/n]-" your head was wiped clean of all thoughts related to the sigil as Gavril started to speak.

Everything and anything he could ask you bombarded your mind along with ever punctual, well versed response you could give. All permutations and combinations of your hair to the weather to your name to your skills has a ready made answer before you could say Planck time.

"Let's just get one thing out of the way-" Gavril's gaze was on you, but not your face. "Has your hair always been white?"

The audience hummed. You smiled and shook your head. "No. It turned white when I hit sixteen. Not sure why."

"Quite interesting!" Gavril smiled with tenfold zeal and inquiry than you could hope to replicate. "Well, then.

"You were the first girl Prince Maxon went on a date with, shortly after your bout with one of our guards." Okay. "Your incredible swordsmanship aside, you and the prince disappeared right afterwards. What happened on your date?"

Somebody drop a stage light on your head. "I-"

You were overshadowed by a few dampened yet loud hiccups directly behind and to the left of you. You recognized those asthmatic chuckles by now.

Gavril looked positively intrigued, rubbing his chin and watching you try not to clench your fists. "Did I hit something here?"

"Excuse me, Gavril." You craned your neck to stare down Maxon. "Your Majesty."

"I'm sorry-" he gulped heartily, waving a hand to you and covering his mouth with the other. "I'm so sorry, I-" his cackling overwhelmed the rest of his sentence. "D-"

"So I'm assuming you were the one who yelled at our prince?" Gavril reclined in his seat, arms crossed. He looked satisfied, and you honestly didn't know how to reply.

Go with-? You, uh. "Well, no, after the bout-"

You were unceremoniously drowned out again by Maxon's new, unrestrained roars of laughter.

"Good lord," you wheezed, pushing your clenched fists further into your lap while the cameras briefly panned to the prince. "This is defamation of character."

"What happened?" Gavril exclaimed, looking over your shoulder to Maxon's shaking figure. "I've never seen the prince like this, and I've known this kid since he was born!"

He's just plain bullying you at this point. This has to be harassment. This has to be. You gave Gavril a sympathetic look. "Since he was born?"

"Yes ma'am!"

"Sorry to hear that."

Maxon's rambunctious laugh was substituted by a sonorous, villainous thrumming.

"Sorry?" He choked, voice emerging from his giggling filled with cracks. "It's a pleasure to know me."

You would bite back at Maxon, but you were still mid-interview. You regained your composure and turned back to Gavril. "I assure you Prince Maxon only finds me humorous. Nothing noteworthy occurred after the bout."

Maxon resumed laughing.

"We'll pry you another time, then," Gavril continued, smirk still intact. "But I have questions in similar veins. Where did you learn to spar like that? A lady such as yourself to pick up something so physical is certainly unusual."

"Well, things such as fencing aren't the most brutish of sports-" even though it technically wasn't fencing. "-But I find it valuable for one to be versed in some form of defense."

"Even for a princess?"

By now, weren't sure whether or not Gavril was trying to probe you. If you were simply given a transcript of everything he was to say, you'd wholeheartedly label it an attempted scrutiny. But something about his inflection threw you off—he sounded too ardent in his cadence to be after you.

After you mentally made certain your posture and timbre were quintessential, you answered with an earnest smile. If he wanted you to indirectly justify your wayward character, you would.

"I'd say so. The finest leaders history has seen—Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, George Washington, Napoléon Bonaparte—were as capable in legislatures as they were in contubernia. A ruler shouldn't prioritize such practices over diplomacy, but it's still favorable for them to be knowledgeable of it."

"Well said." Gavril nodded, a warm smile donning his face. Great. Keep it professional, [F/n]. Try not to involve Maxon's love life too much.

"Another display of both your swordsmanship and your relationship with Prince Maxon was shown in a particular photo shoot a few weeks back. One where you and Maxon seemed to be squabbling over a game of chess?"

"Oh, no!" Maxon called.

You sat up. "It was checkers," you clarified. "We were using the chess set to play lightning checkers, as it was faster, but when I double-jump a handful of his pieces, suddenly checkers’ infamous double-jumping rule doesn't exist. We got a second opinion and he was malcontent still."

Gavril piped up over Maxon's incomprehensible responses. "So you enjoy chess? You seem like the type."

You nodded. "I enjoy most zero-sum games."

"Do you and Prince Maxon typically play these in your time together?"

"For awhile, yes." And now to give the public an activity the two of you do rather than military planning. "Namely shōgi. But we later moved to painting."

"Oh? Is he any good at it?"

Don't jab at him. Don't. "For someone who hadn't picked up a paintbrush 'till this year, yes."

"But is he good at it?"

You tensed. "He's far better than me when I first started with wet media."

"So, is he objectively good at it?"

"Relative to any beginner? Way ahead of the curve."

"Okay, but is he good at it?"

"Would it kill you to help me out?" Maxon deadpanned through what sounded like a megaphone. You glanced to find his head propped up by white knuckles, his other lackadaisical hand tugging at his suit.

Somehow the display made everything all the more humorous. "I've been trying!" You reeled. "I can't be dishonest."

"Not even a little bit, huh?"

"Apologies." You sent an award-winning smile Maxon's way. "I wouldn't be able to say it with a straight face."

"That's lucky, seeing as you look like a piece of decalcomania."

For those in the crowds who knew what fancy art term Maxon just pulled out of his ass, there were a scarce amount of misplaced gasps. You saw one advisor raise a wine glass. Varga, actually. You scrunched your nose.

"Decalcomania?" You derided. "Please, like you can even spell that. You wouldn't know surrealism if someone handed you a mirror."

"If someone handed me a mirror, the only thing you'd find is that I'm better looking than anything you've ever drawn."

"Settle down, ladies!" Gavril raised both of his hands, placing one of them on your shoulder. "Not gonna lie, loving the banter, but nobody can follow it."

Fine. You were coming off as less cold and more rude than you had preferred, anyhow. "He isn't the best visual artist, but that's more my job than his.

"On the other hand, his Majesty can photograph circles around me. He mainly provides me with collages to make into crossovers, providing ideas for composition and tips for augmentation of texture, shade, and value."

"I see. Why didn’t you switch back to games if this was the result?" Gavril pestered.

Was that the thing to focus on? The prince was doing something humane: painting. But whatever, it's honestly a plus this interview was lacking romance. "By the end of it all, we'd become familiar with one another's strategies."

"Correction," Maxon interrupted. "She started to predict my gameplay with such terrifying accuracy it made any plan I had of winning futile. All of my tactics were obsolete."

You deflected. "That's not at all because he's a bad player. The majority of people tend have a niche strategy against the one hundred quintillion combinations of moves that can be made in chess."

Gavril's eyes bulged, and while you've barely experienced horripilation, that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. "The what?" He reeled. "Where did you get that amount from?"

What's that supposed to mean? You knew shifting in your seat would be obvious on camera, so you twirled your feet as an anxiety outlet.

"Well, it's a clean number. Sixteen pieces—including pawn promotion, another eight out a possible thirty-two choices—and twenty initial moves? Nothing the Trachtenberg system can't handle."

"The what?"

Agh! Stop singling yourself out! Even a minister wouldn't be this nerdy. "It's just a mathematical party trick," you gave a dismissive wave. However, Gavril's teal and mocha eyes were fixated not on you, but on-

"You look like you're having a grand time back there, your Majesty." Dammit, Gavril, a Selected refusing to rope Maxon into conversation was not a green light to do so yourself.

You dared not look behind you. "Then stop him for me," you pleaded.

"The exact same thing," Maxon was enthralled. "That's the exact same thing she said the first time she mentioned something way above my level of education."

"Oh?" Gavril was now shamelessly looking over your shoulder to the prince for more input. "She does this often?"

"So we're slandering me now? Is that it?" Looking between Gavril and Maxon, whom were chattering like little schoolgirls, riled you up. "Here's something with reckless disregard. Gavril, did you know Maxon can't write-"

"[N/n], if you finish that sentence, I swear to god I'll disqualify you on the spot." Maxon was on the edge of his seat as if a rabid dog had bit his ass. He almost appeared serious if it weren't for the goofy grin he garnered.

You didn't blink. "-In-"

Maxon waved a hand. "Eliminated." On cue, Maxon sat back into his throne as you prepped to stand up. "Goodbye."

"Guess that's it," you sighed, lifting your dress so you could at least see your feet as you plodded down the miniature steps.

"What on earth?" Gavril sputtered, eyes dropping off into rapid eye movement. Oh, no, his mental notecards are all over the place!

"Breaching of private information," the prince continued. "Nothing you can do. See ya."

"Who am I to argue?" You bounced back. "Sorry, Gavril."

"Hasta la-" you supposed this is when Maxon realized you were halfway down the podium. "Okay, okay, get back here."

Sure thing. "Yep." You turned around, climbed the steps, and sat back down adjacent to Gavril. Your smile remained intact. 

"Good evening," you purred. 

The host gawked at you like a deer in rose-colored headlights. "What was that?"

You could only shrug. You didn't know, either. Just a couple of good pals joking around. "He's indecisive."

Really. One moment the guy wants you, the other moment he outs you on live television. You could tell you'd expressed that at verbatim to Gavril, and now that the weight of doing this on T.V was starting to settle, you were hoping he'd change the subject somehow.

But no. After an astonished studying of you, Gavril leaned forward. "Were you the one who yelled at Prince Maxon, "[N/n]?""

You were a picosecond away from scooting your chair away. Your response was almost venomous. "Wh-? No."

"Then have you kissed Prince Maxon?"

Fight or flight was activated. The words fell from your mouth like rancid food. "God, no."

And then, regret.

The accidental menace of your words rang like bells. A turtle dove gallivanting across a waxing gibbous as it cussed you off wouldn't have sounded half as disorienting.

"Wow," Maxon was already snickering at your infirmities. "Could you have sounded a little more disgusted?"

Here's a defense mechanism you wished hadn't shown up at this time: laughter. "Oh my god, your Maj- I'm so-"

You could no longer see Maxon, but you could hear him tut. "Don't make me laugh, I'm supposed to be offended."

Given that, your will to keep yourself from scattering was shredded. You gremlin-ish laughter then metamorphosed from semi-togetherness to hearty and all over. You hunkered down like a tent being broken down, holding your stomach.

Thankfully, Maxon started to laugh, as well. But his raucous laughter had long exhausted his lungs. Soon, the only symptom of his mania was a whistle-y exhale being forced from his throat whenever he tried breathing or telling you to stop.

"I wasn't trying t-" you coughed. "I didn't mean for it to come out like that!"

"You're just mean!" Maxon bellowed. "You're so mean! That was so aggressive!"

"You guys are really cute," you heard Gavril croon. "But I've unfortunately been letting you guys flirt for too long. Any concluding remarks, Miss [F/n]? What do you think of Maxon?"

"Oh, uh-" still laughing, turned back to Gavril, back to Maxon, then back to Gavril. In its synopsis!" You clapped.

"Prince Maxon is a formidable, capable to-be king who has indulged my antics with aeonian munificence, and I can say with indelible certitude that he'll be one of the finest monarchs Illéa has ever seen."

Oh, god, that was too long. And you got too comfy with Maxon. And Gavril didn't do anything to stop you. And you used too many flowery words. Your image! Your image!

After Gavril let you off the hook, you were a hair from pulling your own hair out. Walking out once everyone had gone, you were basically doing just that?

"What on earth are you looking like such a Debby downer for?" Natalie patted your head. "You were on fire!"

"I don't know-" well, you did, but that's besides the point. "I feel like I was too informal, and a bit too snappy with the prince, and- oh no."

Gavril. You spun around right as you crossed the exit's threshold. You needed to talk to Gavril.

"[F/n]?" Kriss saddled behind Natalie. "Are you alright?"

"I left my hairpin on my seat," you cursed yourself. "God-! Can't I just pull myself together for one night?"

That last part was true, and you said it truthfully enough that Natalie and Kriss said their goodbyes to you as you submerged back into the crowd.

The second part of your night begins.

"Gavril!" You called out, weaving through the dismantling crowd.


	13. A Botanical Menagerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader and Maxon finally deal with the rats in the palace.

"Gavril!" The host, thankfully, was still on set, chatting with what you'd think to be.. Varga?

He looked different. Radically so, to say the least. The luminescent limelight hit him in such a way that his cinnamon-ish skin had become shockingly porcelain, his molasses-hued hair with streaks of sienna now white gold with ochre lowlights. You almost didn't recognize him.

Then again, you've only ever seen him in Minerva's lounge.

"Gavril?" You hastened to the two, tufts of your dress' skirt between your fingers. 

"Hm?" The personality, occupies with Varga's   
boutonnière of osiria rose and acacia, tore his gaze away and to you. Soon after, a warm smile befell his face. "Oh, Lady [F/n]. A pleasure."

Was Maxon still in the room? Any confirmation that you weren't about to make a fool of yourself would be wonderful right now.

You took one final scan of the room, and eureka! He was cross-legged in his seat, talking to his mother. With virtually no chance of looking over to you. Lovely.

Fine.. fine! You flipped your hair behind your shoulders and honed in on the two men. Passing by a table brimming with cheese and crackers, you grabbed a handful of whole wheat chips and shoved them into your dress' pockets. "Good evening!" You chirped.

Varga smiled in the same fashion, adjusting his vantablack elderedge tie. "Will I be seeing you in Minerva's lounge tonight, [L/n]?" 

What a perfect segway into question inducement! Thank you, Varga. You let out an exasperated chortle, averting your eyes off the reflectivity of the palace worker's ivory pantsuit. 

"Likely not," you admitted. "I'd rather not show my face after tonight's events."

Varga's eyes, whose color you couldn't quite name, lingered on you longer than you would've preferred. Gavril's interest, however, had been pricked. 

The host brightened, and his head was put on a slow swivel in your direction. "You mean your interview?"

You winced. "No offense to you, Gavril. You were fantastic, I just.. well, I couldn't keep up."

It was at this point Gavril began to babble. While correlation did not necessarily equal causation, it was at this point Varga began slithering off into the ever-growing pools of shadow the in-house studio provided. 

"Couldn't keep-? Between you and me, dear, you had the most chemistry with Prince Maxon out of all the girls up there! What's bothering you about how it went?"

You twirled what loose strands of hair you had through your filed fingernails. "I'm not sure how much of it was "chemistry" more than it was us trying to embarrass one another."

"You realize that IS chemistry, right?" Gavril put a hand on his hip. "Making fun of each other?"

"I suppose, but there were all of these inside jokes, and-" you covered your mouth. "Oh my god, and what the buffoon had the gall to bring up at the beginning-!"

Now you had him. Gavril's mismatched eyes were sparkling, and he lifted his thumb to his mouth to bite at the nail. "What was that about?" He badgered. "You can honestly tell me, we aren't on air anymore."

"I don't know," you sighed, bushing up your hair. "The full story is quite.. complicated. More so than you're probably thinking. You'd need a lot of context, and a lot of time."

"I have time!" Gavril tapped his designer watch. "Loads of it. Matter of fact, the crazier the story, the more I have."

You readily accepted defeat in a shoulder sag, and held your upper arms. "Somehow I'm not surprised. But could we not congregate here? I still feel like there's cameras all over me, and I could really use some fresh air."

"Of course, of course!" Gavril brushed past you and placed a hand on your back. "How about the gardens? The winter section- er, faction.. whatever one just opened. The flowers are to die for!"

"Really?" You observed, pressing a finger to your lower cheek. "To be honest, I've never seen the gardens."

"Allow me to say, Lady America enjoys them for a reason!"

So the two of you walked. Upon arriving at the garden, the yellow brick road you set foot on soon winded off like dried rivers searching aimlessly their delta. They would vanish under the grass, so green it was almost blue even at night. Flowers followed.

The sun and moon's infinite chase had begun once more; the celestial blanket of warmth had been pushed off the side of the earth, and the sky engulfed in a sea of ebony. Towers of meticulously built clouds you could only see if you squinted dressed the skyline as it's cool colors began their abysmal reign. 

Yet it wasn't abysmal. It wasn't dark. Cerulean swirls sewed themselves into the atmosphere and stars blazed across the horizon line. Diamonds accompanied the shy crescent moon, acting as subtle encouragement. 

It seemed as though someone had taken a picture of the night sky and enhanced it. Even an irradiated Milky Way was visible, stretching solar systems wide and constellations apart. 

"There's a curfew for cities within a certain mile radius of the palace to have their lights out by eight thirty." Gavril pointed to one of the falling stars, slicing mercilessly through the crisp night. "Reduces light pollution. Look! There must be a meteor shower tonight."

"I see." The gardens had no interest mourning the sun's departure, and instead welcomed the silence of nighttime.

Gusts of wind swept soundly found enjoyment in endless converse with the reeds and grass. The foliage leaned ever so lightly into the breezes as they interlaced themselves in between every puckish blade of grass scattered across the ground. 

Now that you could give away false private information in the comfort of the outside, you incidentally came upon the center fountain while you ad-libbed some story straight out of a romcom. The water had shut off for the night.

You held your breath and peaked around the fountain. Glossy, honey brown hair glinted in the lunar glow. You'd recognize the dirty blond coloring on mars. 

"Oh, uh," you feigned surprise, trudging around the fountain. "Your Majesty?... Kriss?"

There was Maxon, drenched in moonlight, beside Kriss. Two guards—Charles and Avery—accompanied them. Kriss was standing closer to the knightly duo than the prince, holding a bundle of mulberry geranium. 

Maxon turned to you and Gavril, a hepacita tucked behind his ear and a shroud of serendipity over his eyes. "Lady [F/n] and Gavril? What an honor."

"Apologies, were we interrupting something?" Gavril's eyes slid to Kriss, who didn't look as disappointed as one would expect. Meekly, you closed the distance between you and Maxon, curtsying.

"The honor is all mine, your Majesty." The host bowed on cue, and the thin wash of pleasantry Maxon taken on cracked like nail polish. 

"Not at all," the prince replied to Gavril mid-bow, turning to you. "Disarm them."

"Your majesty?" Avery asked.

You rose, fixing your hair and reached a hand into your pocket. "They only have pole-staffs, but if you insist."

You grabbed a fistful of your would-be snacks and crushed them. Not a second afterwards, you flung the fine-powdered irritants at the guard's eyes like can-free pepper spray. 

There was no capsaicin, but it worked like a charm. Avery and Charles doubled backwards, cursing, and you closed in. In the microscopic cloud of grain's assault, you swiftly slid the guards' staffs out of their steel sheaths. 

As you fell back, Kriss grabbed your wrist. "Stop!-" The brunette began in a hiss, but fell silent upon watching you return to Maxon's side. She shrunk into herself with an ease nobody foreign to deceit would carry.

"Maxon, what's going on?" Tears were already prepped to pearl down her blushing cheeks. "What is this?"

Kriss went to grab his sleeve, but Maxon recoiled. The girl went pale as Maxon clasped his hands together and exchanged an unamused look with you. 

"Okay, everyone." As if herding sheep, Maxon lifted a finger to Gavril and motioned to the already formed flock of Avery, Charles, and Kriss. "Let's drop the façades."

The group harmoniously paled. "M-Maxon." Gavril tried an attack from a more personal, familial angle. "What are you talking about? I've known you before you could walk. What façade?"

Avery and Charles were hunched over like cornered animals, backing away. Maxon, tutting disapprovingly, kicked a pebble in your direction. So that's your cue. "Try to run and I'll have you incapacitated."

"Maxon!" Gavril's voice had rose, but not yet to a shout. "What have we done to deserve this?"

Maxon's brow furrowed. He pressed his hands together, steepling his fingers. A C-level executive looming over his cowering board of directors.

"What you've done?" The prince tossed up a hand. "As for you, Gavril, all you've been doing is acting a parasite to my castle for the last forty years."

Kriss turned to Gavril, eyes saucer-sized. "What?" She slunk away. "You've been what?"

Maxon huffed. "Kriss." Slowly, the blond outstretched a hand to the girl's neck. His finger landed on the star pendant at the center of her jewelry, pressing so hard you saw the brunette's skin dent. "At least take your necklace off before you play dumb."

"Son, are you out of your mind?" Gavril was beginning to squirm. "You-"

The prince's eyes slid over to Gavril. "I'd not evident enough, you all are here because you've been identified as enemies of the state. Besides sporting rebel sigils, which seems to be a common denominator amongst the lot of you..

"Avery." The guard froze. "I have CCTV footage of you smuggling approximately 20,000 crowns worth of weaponry from the royal armory a fortnight ago.

"Charles." The ginger stiffened, rubbing his nose. "You, sirrah, have lost a good deal of highly sensitive documents in circulation. Even after you were released from handling mail, you'd still burn what you could."

Next on his list. "Gavril, while my evidence is circumstantial, I have reason you've been facilitating rebels activity. Specifically, them skimming off the treasury. 

"In alignment with northern ambushes, our security cameras near the vaults are pushed some inches to the left a week or so before. The night of the attack, an alleged rebel goes and unlocks everything. Last time, they even got past the newly implanted facial recognition."

The announcer was drenched in sweat. "That's-"

"You're the only outsider who has both the access to the monitoring rooms and passcodes needed to pull that off. While we've never asked for alibis from our employees during attacks, you've never been accounted for during these time stamps.”

As Maxon continued on, you watched with intent as Gavril's face darkened. His submissive stance shifted. "That's a very far-fetched story you've fabricated, son."

"Maybe." Maxon shrugged. "But given that your build appears identical to each and every perpetrator we have footage of, I could still have you killed for it. And I will if you don't shut up."

Last but not least. Maxon dug a hand into his pocket, pulling out a single piece of folded paper. "Kriss." 

Maxon flattened out what you now recognized as the glossy letterhead of the palace. A letter to home. "It was bold, but I respect however you came across the idea of writing in lemon wedges. At the very least, it's resourceful.

"And yet, for something so high risk, you use a Vigenère cipher." Maxon shoved the letters back into his pocket, shaking his head. "I don't know if your operation and all it's loose ends or my father and the arsenal of people at his disposal is the bigger idiot. No matter."

"We-" Avery scrambled for words. "We support the royal family, your Majesty. The- the- the n-ortherners do."

Now things were getting somewhere. Maxon pretended to consider such a concept very poorly. You and him epsied one another again, and the decision of disapproval of the statement was made. 

"Really?" The heir queried wistfully. "How peculiar. Here I thought one's actions should reflect their words?"

"You read the letters," Kriss puffed. She waved a hand to where Maxon had stowed her letters like a child would to confiscated candy. "Right? You saw for yourself what we want."

"Yet you steal from us. You weaken us," Maxon accosted. "You generate odium and disorder. You-" 

As though a rush of warm, non-autumnal air hit you and Maxon on the backs, the cold vibe Maxon had been emitting was snuffed. The prince pressed two fingers to his temple.

"You took tanks of an experimental, underdeveloped gas for no justifiable reason." They did? "Out of all the things in storage, my god damned fentanyl derivatives catch your eye. Can I have those back, at the least? Please?"

It seemed the majority either thought the question to be rhetorical or didn't know what the hell Maxon was talking about. Harsher than before, he reiterated. "Can I?"

This time, a reply came so instantaneously from Charles it overlapped the end of Maxon's question. "You can have those back, your Majesty." He nodded like a bobble head, staring at his feet.

"Thank you." Maxon tugged at his cuffs. "So if you tolerate my family as you say, what do you need all the contraband for? Paintball?"

"To stop the southerners," Gavril explained. "We give guns and information to central in Bellingham, they split it between infrastructure and keeping southerners' marches on Angeles from becoming commonplace."

"Central's been needing more resources as of late," Charles butted in for what felt like the umpteenth time. "I- we don't know why, we really don't, but the southerners are getting antsy for god knows why."

"Like he said," Gavril restarted, raising his hands. "We don't know exactly why things are done the way they are, but we support the Schreave family."

"All we want is a casteless society, a nominated official or two.." Kriss trailed off.

"That's it," Maxon said. 

"Correct."

"Oh, sure, but a small tweak or two in the way things are run." The crown prince rolled his eyes. "Easily achievable through the decrepit means by which you're doing it. You all have truly drank the kool-aid."

Charles, Avery, and Kriss shrunk at Maxon's belabor. Gavril only glared. 

Maxon sat on the edge of the fountain. "So then, if you all are telling the truth, there's no need for enmity between us."

All four of them lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Ye-" Avery stammered. "Yes, sir."

"Our real quarrel would remain with the southerners, and their antipathy for the monarchy. I needn't persecute you." The more he continued, the more rigorously the quartet nodded.

"Yes, yes-" Kriss fell to her knees, grabbing her necklace akin to how a nun would grab a cross in prayer. "Maxon, your Majesty, please believe us. We'd never go against you. The northerners would never go against you."

"We've been in your mother and father's personal guard for years, your Majesty," Fry exclaimed. "If we had wanted his or her Highness gone-"

Maxon, gripping the stone lip he sat on with one hand, raised his other. The crowd fell illy silent. "[F/n]?" 

Oh. Oh! So you were to announce the verdict.

They sounded fine. God knows you were listening to any red flags in their inflections. "They aren't lying," you concluded. "But.."

Your eyes fell to where Kriss lay, periwinkle dress splayed out behind her, W-sitting on the grass and fists curled up on her knees. 

The brunette either had more she wasn't saying and it was stressing her out, or doesn't handle anxiety-arousing social situations adequately. Her breathing was ragged and irregular; she was sweating to the point her pin straight hair was sticking to every exposed piece of her skin; you could likely make out her sledgehammer of a heartbeat if you listened closely enough.

It was disheartening to see who you considered a friendly face in such a state, but more so was the disposition suspicious. "Kriss." The girl went red, and began to twitch. "Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

She covered her ears. "I-" then her mouth. "I'm-" then she began to rock, back and forth, to and fro, in her fabric cradle. "I think I'm going to throw up."

"What a grand gesture," Maxon sighed, standing up and pulling her letter back out of his pant leg. The blond handed it to Avery after he stopped backing away from him. "Take Lady Kriss back to her room before she vomits on my shoes. It'd be hard to make anymore a fool of herself than she already has, but that might do it."

"I'm sorry," she wailed while Avery helped her up. "I'm sorry."

"We'll discuss what I want from you all at a later date." Maxon surveyed the remainder of the resistance. "For now, I recommend you be off this premises within the next minute, lest I charge you for conspiracy against the king."

Gavril gave Maxon an overcompensated, frivolous bow, lifting the bottom of his suit like a lady would her skirt. "As you wish, your Lordship," the fop whined, and slunk away into the trees and landscaping. Charles walked into the garden's nightlife, but was a skip away from breaking into run for the nearest palace entrance.

"Adieu," Maxon sounded after them. 

You didn't take your eyes of their shadows until they had fully dispersed into the underbrush. When the last trace of them was gone, Maxon caught himself on the fountains ledge, breathing like he'd just finished a marathon in stilts.

"Oh my god," he coughed. "I'm never doing that again."

Dude. "Max- that- you-" you didn't know where to start. It felt like a bubble machine had replaced your voice box. "Ahh! That was so cool! You were so cool! And then you- the CCTV and the things and the- the letters!"

"The letters." He craned his neck up to you, and an exasperated but sunshine warm grin cracked his lips. He started to laugh. "I know, right? That was ridiculous! Between you and me, I couldn't decode them!"

"What?" You covered your mouth, replaying the audio of the confrontation. He didn't ever explicitly express the contents. "You- you couldn't?"

"Not a goddamn thing!" Maxon's high pitched laughter grew as he grabbed your arm. You were pulled down to his semi-crouched level. "I could only tell it was a Vigenère! I just! Ha! Went with it, haha!! [N/n]! That was so stressful!"

"You were amazing!" You took the prince by his shoulders and shook him side to side. "Like a royal Sherlock Holmes! Astounding!"

"I did that."

You helped him up and dusted him off. "You did that!"

"I did that!" Maxon trilled, only starting to traipse toward his home after you pushed him forward.

"You sure did!" You pounded his back as you walked along. "Dug up everything by yourself, no less! You think I ever studied cryptography enough to know anything with a higher difficulty level than caesars or substitutions?"

"I have no idea!" He retorted.

"I haven't!" You declared. 

"Do you think I was too harsh?" Maxon was now biting his nails. "I just- I didn't want to look like some pushover, but Gavril looked like he wanted to gut me like a fish and, well, there's Kriss."

You couldn't stop smiling. "You were pretty cold," you acknowledged in your sagelike wisdom. Maxon outright gasped at your reflection, which was all the more comical.

"No!" He mewled, cupping his cheeks. "Oh, they'll hate me! Oh, no! How do I explain that to father?"

You watched him wring his hands in delight. "You'll think of something. You got this all figured out, his majesty and absolute heir to the Illéan throne."

Maxon made a noise of a hurt dog while he fanned himself. "Agh, never say that again. You're handling all this stuff from now on, you hear me? All of it."

"Oh, nuh-uh." 

"Yeah-huh. You're the one who brought crackers to blind the guards."

"Wh- hey!" Maxon began to snicker, so naturally you couldn't be that mad at him, but you still tried. "First of all, you could've told me the plan was still a go! I thought your father would've known about it!"

"You weren't sure?" Maxon cocked a brow. "I just though you knew we were clear since he didn't say anything! I saw you working on Gavril when the Report was over—lovely job on leading him on, by the way—and assumed you were good! And the crackers!"

"For your information, I primarily planned on snacking on them post Report, but it's multipurpose qualities were in the back of my head, like any true multitasker!"

That was a can of worms you shouldn't have opened. You were so busy being entertained, entranced, enthralled with Maxon's disposition, you had selected the wrong dialogue option. 

Maxon stilled, turning to you like a wooden doll with its head on a little off. "Yes, of course." How the tables has turned. "The Report. Your Report. Your interview during the Report."

You shielded your eyes from Maxon's overly bewitching grin. "Don't even start."

"The interview which effectively made the entire thing your Report. The pièce de résistance, specifically, of the Report."

"I don't know about you, but I'm expecting opprobrium," you mumbled, hand on your hip. You'd be lying if you said you weren't anticipating some reaction from Maxon with the comment, but not something as blown up as what he did.

His jaw practically hit the floor. "What?" You twitched at the intensity of his voice, and when you raised a hand to your ear, he tried to hold it. "Why? If it assuages you, I loved it! And if I loved it, everyone else will!"

"I'm agog to see your predictions come true!" You hissed, batting Maxon's big, meaty claws away. "I wanted to stay stepford, you know! So much for that yen—my informality hit a zenith in so much as two minutes!"

"Somebody's embarrassed." Maxon turned to poke your sides. "You know, you turn into a dictionary when you get all flustered."

"Ahh!" You slapped at and around your waist as the swarm of mosquitos that were Maxon's frighteningly quick-moving hands swarmed you. "I do not! Stop!"

This only proved to be fuel to the fire. "Aw, you so do! You're super red right now!"

"Oh my god!" You squeaked, trying to cover your face and your stomach simultaneously. "Because you're pinching at my sides like a crab!"

"A crab?" Maxon crowed. "I am much more formidable and capable than a crab, wouldn't you agree? Choose something else, like a lobster or something."

You'd like to say you had a high tolerance to joke around with Maxon, but this was unusually overwhelming. In a last ditch effort, you swiped up both of Maxon's hands by the wrist and planted them on his waist. "I am never complimenting you, ever again, in the history of ever."

Maxon glared at your for awhile, but crossed his arms in a somber harrumph. "Fine. I'll save my snipping technique for someone who will appreciate it," he said, blowing a cowlick off his forehead.

And then he looked back to you, curiously. "Now what?"

"Now what?" Where to start? "I wish I had a planner. 

"There's Gideon that I'm now shadowing and my project I'm fine tuning with; training the guards is going to get very serious very quickly; you, of course, because I'm still planning to hang with you; riding the publicity wave and managing my appearance in the press; I still need to make Kriss a birthday present; and I'm still technically part of the Selection and I've barely interacted with any girl besides Kriss and Natalie, so that needs to be fixed."

"You put a lot of pressure on yourself," Maxon commented.

"You of all people should understand the importance of duty." You watched the petals of a hibiscus flutter in the wind. "Right now, though? My primary priority is judging the garden."

"What?" You fought your oncoming smile. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

"Well, it's capacious, sure, but I've yet to spot any native biodiversity. If the installation of the seasonal gardens really was your grandfather's magnum opus, it's a bit underwhelming."

Maxon looked like a cat that had been caught mid erratic sprint across a house. "Wow. You really do have an opinion on everything."

"And my least favorite multiple of 3 is 21," you sighed and clutched your chest. "The sky, however, reminds me of my wretched damnation to terra firma."

"Oh, it's gorgeous, isn't it?" Maxon ogled, gawking at the salt sprinkled sky. "I love stargazing." Then, hesitation. "Even though I can't make out most of the constellations."

"Actually?" You marveled, and pointed to a series of stars. "Look, there's Equulus, the little horse! I can kind of see what the ancients were getting at."

"Hm?" Maxon followed your finger, and his eyes brightened. "Ah...! Then that-" he pointed northeast, up the Milky Way, to another cluster. "Then that must be capricornus, right?"

Um. "That's Delphinus. Capricornus is over there."

"Oh, boy." Maxon pulled at his collar, a sheepish grin etched on his face. Giggling was inevitable with such a display. He made another shot in the dark. "Microscopium?"

"Cygnus."

"Indus?"

"Vulpecula."

"Mars?"

"Ha!" After looking to nudge Maxon and seeing the distress on his face, your arm fell. "Seriously?"

"Hey-" your eye caught something. "Vega!" 

As you swung your hand in the star's direction, you heard another voice behind your own. Your and Maxon's hands collided in simultaneous location, both dead center below the gas giant. 

You held your hand in place for a breath—as did Maxon—registering the occurrence, and jerked it to your chest upon noticing. Maxon retracted his hand, albeit at a slower rate.

You were about to make something up when you noticed how close the two of you were to the palace entrance. As well as a figure looming over the glass. 

"[F/n]?" Maxon followed your gaze, and froze with the quality of someone having taken a snapshot right when he recognized King Clarkson, Gideon, and Silvia. 

King Clarkson looked at you, dead in the eyes, and shook his head. The monarch tilted his head towards the grand staircase behind him like he was directing you to where a trash can was. So you should leave.

"Go." You felt Maxon's hand on your shoulder. "I'll be fine. Gideon's there." 

He couldn't hurt you, he couldn't hurt you, he couldn't hurt you. You had kept repeating it to yourself the minute you saw him, but the warmth of Maxon's hand crumbled the walls you had built and the ground you tried to stand by. You leaned into him.

"Are you-" but Maxon gave you a little push, and you were off. 

You ducked your head past the trio of castle workers. All of whom similarly gave you no greeting. Hearing Maxon enter through the same double doors shortly after you was the last thing you heard before you dashed up the stairs.

You had no inclination to go to bed, but you'd try.

*

You know you'd told Maxon literally last night that you had piles of work to do, but you couldn't overcome a sudden itch to mess with your art supplies.

Maxon has told you to go, that he'd be fine, but you still felt awful for leaving him their with Gideon and that disaster duo. You mean, they had knives for eyes yesternight. And you just took Maxon's government assigned excuse and ran with it.

Plus, it was Saturday, meaning no mandated breakfast, and your body had grown accustomed to waking up at five. So you had nothing to do for three hours.

Would he let you apologize to him? Is this something worth apologizing over? Maybe you don't need to apologize, but just- "oh, I'm sorry that happened to you, man" or something? 

Okay. Stop. You've decided you're overthinking this. And while that doesn't stop you from beating yourself up about it on the back burners of your brain, you have another method to amend that.

Making him a bunch of little arts and crafts. Duh. Painting is your string suit, sure, but you finished your walls awhile ago, and you literally had boards of 3D material collecting dust. Might as well warm up to other media.

From what you could remember from his photography collection, the prince was particularly fond of nature. Commonplace peculiarities you'd find outdoors. Reptiles, birds, flowers...

Oh god, oh god, there's slip on your hands that's drying at an alarmingly fast rate. Stop. Stop!

It made sense, you figured. He'd grown up in a place that, even though so gargantuan and so grandeur-filled, kept him indoors. While not necessarily a form of rebellion, it'd be natural for him to be drawn towards such, as he knew them, deviant things. 

Didn't women used to self-embed sewing needles right under the epidermis' outermost layer of dead skin cells while they wove? Yeah, no, you'll just stick with the vintage pincushion doll.

Oh, hey, by the way, what time was it? 

Your eyes found the clock, and you jumped. Eleven? Shit. Before you could get up, someone burst through your door.

"Milady!" Anima yodeled, prancing in with two less fanatical pairs of footsteps close behind. "Are you in here? Have you read the news? Oh!"

The girl stopped in front of you, but her sunflower yellow head of hair continued on their original path for far longer. They tilted her head for her. "Hey, milady. Whatcha doing?"

"Why are you like this?" Zafira towered over Anima, stare burning into your side. "Sir Friedman's right outside, you know."

Marca pushed past the both of them. "Have you two ever heard of helping? Come on, miss."

In a minute or two, you were dressed and your crafts tucked away. Your dignity remained statistically insignificant, but at least you could answer the door. 

You curtsied. "Good morning, sir Friedman."

"Hardly," he retorted, tapping his foot. With a smile, thankfully. "Do you know what effective immediately means, Lady [F/n]?"

Zafira coughed as you pushed Gideon out of the doorway. "Okay, okay. You got me. Just don't drag me in front of those three, alright? I'd never hear the end of it."

"First things first, we have an emergency meeting concerning rebel activity in fifteen. All principal advisors, including myself, are required to attend.

"Next, which is a bit more my speed, briefings on international tensions in the east. Mainly our predicament with the Eurasian Republic and developments regarding the involvement of Swendway. I carved out some time afterwards to discuss your project, as well."

You cracked your neck. "Doesn't sound too bad. Suppose I don't have to worry about clearance level with you?"

"Or given King Clarkson's blessing. He may act formally towards those he's just met, but he knows no matter his behavior around us that we can't judge him," Gideon explained with a cringe. "And don't.. do that."

You released the top of your head. "Do what?"

"Crack your neck like that," he critiqued. "At least not out here. Only Maxon ever does that, and it's still very ungentlemanly on his part."


	14. Introspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader has to grapple with another lifestyle change within her newfound life, as well as some newfound feelings.

"Can I ask you something?"

The advisor cleared his throat, sliding his pocket watch back into his tux. "By all means?"

"How did you become a principal advisor to one of the most conservative kings we've seen at such a young age?"

Gideon flattened the collar to his dress shirt. "Connections and ambition. 

"On my fourteenth birthday I decided I was going to become either chief of missions, principal advisor to foreign relations, or royal translator, and then I just put on the horse blinders. Ten years later I got my second pick."

"Fourteen?" You rubbed the back of your neck. "Wow. The only thing I was worried about at fourteen was counting cards."

Gideon grinned. "To be honest, I wasn't even aware I had other options. We're taking left here. 

"My parents had three children—always told us that size family showed the highest percentages for financial stability. I was the eldest, and they wanted a government official, a lawyer, and a physician, in that order. Then it turned out I had high language intelligence, and everything fell into place from there."

"Oh," you said. "I'm.. sorry." Gideon twitched.

"It's quite alright." The advisor was starting to slow. "Sure, sometimes I wonder what I would've gone after if given the choice, but I'm well fed and I don't hate it here. Better than having no food on the table and job I love." 

You contemplated the dynamics of that statement as you walked on.

"So." Gideon eyed you. "Have you read the news?"

"On the Report? Can't say I have." Even the thought made your stomach twist. "I definitely will whenever I can, but I'm not expecting my desired results."

"It's good for you to be realistic," the noiret confessed. "If you were genuinely partaking in the Selection, I'd say you did marvelously, but given actual circumstance, the response wasn't the best. Do yourself a favor, though."

"What's that?"

Gideon turned to you, flint eyes hard and infallible. "Don't look."

...What? You could feel your brows knit together. "I beg your pardon?"

Gideon paused to let his eye be scanned by a steel door. "You have enough on your plate." A thin wall of acid green light coated his eye. "And, no offense, the more you stress over your public image, the less useful you look to the palace."

The reinforced door still demanded a series of passwords. "You'll end up spinning your wheels too much and burning out. Maxon and I will tell you if you're out of line in things that matter, so don't bother yourself with interviews or daily magazine readings like you've been planning."

"People have to like me if I'm to stay in the Selection."

"That's taken care of. People don't have to like you if you're to stay in power." The door, giving a jarring creak, swung open to a windowless room. "Just look at his Highness."

The room came off as quaint at first glance. The walls were wooden, heavily varnished, and, frankly, plain. It was smaller than most. Perhaps even more homely.

Upon further observation, however, you noted foam panels tiling the walls, and a mishmash of fabrics posing to be some kind of expressionism-inspired tapestry hanging on the ceiling. The floor was carpeted. Furniture was abundant. Noise mufflers. 

To make matters worse, the current occupant of the room was tornado of high level testosterone.

Military brass and chief officials were lined up assembly-style in button-tufted leather chairs, quietly murmuring amongst themselves. They huddled around a long table, glittering vexingly enough to possibly be made of solid gold. 

Minister president Zeke Varga saw you plodding behind Gideon, and grinned your way. When what looked to be a naval officer noted his eye contact—or lack thereof—he turned. Like a bonfire, your presence was slowly made known to the remainder of the room.

Suddenly. "Now that everyone is here.." All eyes turned to King Clarkson, who was seated at the head of the table. His was beside him, resting his head in his hand, but Amberly was nowhere to be seen. 

Maxon soon glanced to the door, and saw you. He sat up. "..This is [F/n] [L/n] of the Selection. Her work is pertinent to today's proceedings."

Wow. Only female in the room.jpeg. The military men exchange a handful of glances, some who you recognized from gambling and vice versa, but nobody questioned the king. 

Humming, Varga rose from his chair with a stack of report in his hands, handing a packet to each attendee. Gideon sat down, and after a moment patted a seat beside him. 

Oh. You sat down.

"We have intel on plans for another south-sourced attack on the palace sometime late October," Varga began. "These plans similarly include the assassinations of governor Sharpe and the Lamay pater familias.

"Given the amount of people we have in the south pocketed isn't nearly enough to deal with such an uprising, let's discuss mobilizing the national guard everywhere south of Carolina, possibly Allens."

You heard a long, drawn out sigh, and skimmed the sea to see a well decorated officer drum his fingers along the table. "Mister president, I'm not sure how much of the army you believe to be in storage, but our soldiers are needed in New Asia."

You recognized them from gambling: General of the Armies Theodore O'Brien and Admiral of the Navy Aidan Gù.

"All of them," Gù, beside him, buddied up. "And, given our domestic situation, draft inflations wouldn't work well."

"General, we all agreed on Lady [L/n]'s recommendation to prioritize our means of biochemical warfare rather than putting more bodies in New Asia, am I wrong?" King Clarkson interjected. "As she said, the disparity between our military technologies is our primary problem."

Wait, what? You squinted as everyone turned to you. Oh. You'd almost forgotten about that one dinner. Once you nodded as though to confirm the monarch's citation, the debate continued.

"That's not for me to do. I have battles to arrange." Not for him to do?

"We can't smoke them out of their own continent," Maxon tuned in.

"Neither can I replicate the nuclear arsenal the United States had in a matter of months," the general retorted. "The army's doing the best it can given that we're fighting with half of what the crown has promised. If we take anymore men out of New Asia-"

"Gen. O'Brien-" Maxon frowned, and you became increasingly aware of how Maxon was now expected to handle the present disasters unfolding across the sea. 

King Clarkson has now reclined in his seat, holding a teacup to his lips, but never taking a sip. He only watched his son struggle.

"-I'm not sure why everyone's using Lady [L/n] as some kind of source when she knows next to nothing about this situation." Oh? You perked up only to watch Gù point a folded packet in your direction. "Since when is a female Seven a military aficionado?"

Your eyes, originally, darted out of Gù's glare and to Maxon's, but seeing the harsh look on his father's face swayed you. You suppose you do have King Clarkson's blessing, it's not like this guy can make or break your removal anymore. It's safe to say something. 

You took a deep, steadying breath, and... 

"Seeing as nearly all of the army's operations are being run by strategic corporals, I have a hard time believing you know anymore than I do about those predicaments other than extra numbers."

Besides Varga, who was busying himself cooling down his mug of coffee, the committee froze. The accused man dropped his papers.

"Excuse me?" Gen. O'Brien barked for him. "That's the admiral of the navy you're talking to."

"Is the admiral of the navy in direct contact with every corporal that make the actual tactical decisions deployed in New Asia?" You browbeat. "Do either of you have any battlefield responsibility?"

"Of course we do! Of course we are!"

"Exactly."

"What are you suggesting?" Maxon rumbled.

"It's not the drafting process that's failing here," you harangued. "It's that the less than twenty people in this room completely uninvolved with war are micromanaging it."

General O'Brien rose from his chair.

"We micromanage the war due to the insufficiency of the drafting process," Maxon contested. "Seeing as high caste citizens can sell out, our ranks are filled with uneducated, disloyal, low caste individuals. We can't trust them to properly strategize on our behalf."

"Only because we give them no incentive to." You leaned forward, propping your elbows onto the table. "You all like to look back on the military might of the United States with fervor, don't you? Let's get nostalgic. That power came from its efficiency in small units. Undetectable squadrons that would bear as little consequence as cutting off a lizard's tail if neutralized, headed by junior ranks with no education past high school."

"That is true." Varga rubbed his stubbled chin. "While they had highly educated officers, they were displaced in favor of noncommissioned officers with more experience in battle and no degrees."

Thank you! "Chiefs didn't try to cling onto the authority lieutenants had. Instead, they focused on enabling those sergeants and platoon commanders for combat and translation for civilian officials."

O'Brien and the admiral exchanged a hasty look. "I would presume such duties are reserved for positions higher up on the totem pole." The former pressed his hands together.

Deep breaths, [F/n]. Deep breaths. Varga chuckled. "Gen. O'Brien, you have one of the highest positions on the totem pole."

"For a different branch, I meant."

"I agree with Lady [L/n] in this case," Varga said. "This isn't the 19th century—we cannot closely monitor the nuances of our war with New Asia, nor should we. 

"Besides large-scale coordination, Gen. O'Brien and Adm. Gù, try not to involve yourself in the going-ons and-"

"Hold on." If anyone was allowed to cut anyone off in a professional setting, it'd be King Clarkson. "If you thought reinventing our WMDs was someone else's responsibility, what have you been doing with the funds you've been receiving? Those were intended for your collaboration with the engineering department."

For a quick moment, silence. "...They were?"

King Clarkson let out a long, dilapidated sigh. Maxon took his father's tea and slugged it as though it were tequila. 

"We still haven't addressed the issue of unskilled soldiers," Varga continued in incongruously light air. "But I believe flying small pockets of them back into Illéa for better training one at a time would fix that."

"It'd similarly keep thoughts of desertion at bay if they were to see their families again," Guildenstern complimented. "Give then their own minds to act on and add a longevity to their patriotism."

"Once reinstated, we'd likely have enough surplus of grade-A footmen to remove officers with seniority from New Asia and bus them to the capital." Another man said. "Let them put their heads together for our rebel predicament."

"Are we sure biotechnology is really the way to go in New Asia?" A meager advisor inquired. "How is writing more checks to the royal academy of science going to do anymore good than sending it straight to demolitions?

"Our men in virology are miracle makers," another replies, leaking back. "It'll take longer than desirable, but we'll manage. That being said, we need to ensure we don't become.. short-staffed again. We've been dragging our feet on instating compulsory military service for men over 18. With the Selection dominating the news cycle, now would be a great time to slide it into our defense laws." 

Given that others were pitching in, it seems as though the advisors had come to a consensus.

"We can keep the southerners off more conventional routes long enough with His Majesty's scorched earth plans. No need to worry about apogee of illegal advanced arms circulation if we don't engage them."

"Our soldiers still need more compensation than what we've been giving them.. Your Majesty, how have the plans for your advancements on the school system been fairing?"

Maxon perked, and the meeting continued onward with merely minor inputs on your part. 

At times you were pulled for evidence on something, but otherwise you were exactly what you were meant to be: a shadow.

And, upon departure, you'd patched things up with the brass.

"It had to be a strategic withdrawal," you mentioned on the way out, lodged between Gen. O'Brien and Adm. Gù. 

"You're telling me!"

"You fought for every inch of that terrain and they suddenly run themselves out eight miles? Even without aerials, that's a trap."

Gù groaned. "I kept saying to my superiors it was asinine, but they stood by Maj. Stevenson. Anyway, the elevated battleground was the only benefit that thing had, and our spoils did nothing to make up for our losses. I wanted to consult Lt. Christi before the relief-"

The hoary man's glazed eyes caught onto something in passing. Whatever it was, he nodded to it with raised, bushy brows. "I suppose I'll have to take a rain check on my spiel, young lady. Your Majesty."

You turned, and clearing the doorway a man away was Maxon, waving. Like some kind of dork. You grinned to yourself as you weaves through the crowd.

Upon closer inspection, Gideon was next to him, shielding himself from the onslaught of people via wedging himself between the prince and the wall. Two for one!

"Hello, there," you said as you settled beside the pair. "No offense to your regime, but I can understand why your father was so open to a Seven being your advisor."

"Oh, god," Maxon sighed, combing through his hair. "I swear, secondhand embarrassment I felt in there. No, actually, firsthand."

"It's a mix of his hiring processes and reserving powerful jobs exclusively for friends," Gideon supplied.

"Military? I can respect that mishap. They're cut out for battles, not logistics. The rest? Their families have been guiding us for over a century! I have no clue how their bloodlines ended up like that."

Gideon rubbed his chin. "I suppose that's where the nature of favoring relatives or friends for jobs slapped your father in the face. It really is no wonder he was so desperate." 

"Don't mind Gideon, he's just offhandedly insulting his coworkers," Maxon joked. "But I digress. You should have [F/n] tag along to more summits—that was swiftest decision-making they've boasted all year."

Gideon exhaled so sharply you'd think he was choking on a fork. "The General of the Armies was about to bash her head into the table!"

"Pshaw, I wasn't going to actually aggrieve him," you defended. "It's simply that now that their adulation is, ceteris paribus, optional for me, I'm practicing having my voice heard." 

Maxon whistled, twisting the ends of his hair. "Ceteris paribus? Someone's antsy."

"You always-" the crown prince started to laugh. "Alright, then I'll call you out whenever your hands reach for your hair and see how that works out."

The blond's tan skin went stark white. Only accentuating your point further, his hand did what it infallibly does—shoot up towards his head and bury itself between the golden follicles it owned. At this action, Maxon squeaked, and ripped his hand away. He shoved it in his pocket and seemingly tried to wipe the blush off his face with the other. That didn't work.

"Wow," his subordinate mused. "That was right on the mark."

"That was low," he warned, slowly veering off a straight line trajectory, gliding over to your side, and pushing you off your own course with a shoulder. "You touch your hair, too, you know. Whenever you get sad or sentimental."

You fought against the push. "If you can't mess with your hair, you start fiddling with your hands so elaborately it looks like you're inventing sign language."

Both you and Maxon looked down at his hands. The one he'd detained had escaped from its fabric imprisonment, and was twiddling thumbs with the other. He stilled them, a sly smile flickering across his face. "So I do. Whatever else would you propose I do with them?"

Oh. Oh. Here you thought in the chance of a dirty comment you'd be able to handle it well. All you could do in this situation was have a tiny "Hic-" erupt from your throat and feel the blood rush to your face.

"Do with the sign language?" Gideon inquired in a blurt.

Maxon went on, leaning more and more into your—relative to him—petite frame. "You stammer in two minute intervals whenever something you didn't predict appears."

You finally decided on a strategic withdrawal. Waiting for the exact moment where enough of Maxon's body weight was against you that he wouldn't be able to recover if you suddenly pulled back, you came to an abrupt stop.

As predicted, the prince stumbled forward without you, letting out a choked yelp as he fell into where his precious support laid. You buzzed by him in tiny loops. "Whenever you're feeling impassioned, you pace or talk to yourself."

After regaining his footing, Maxon followed your circular path. "You're just listing off any bad habit by now. I've never done any of those before ever in my entire life, and now I'm mad."

"[F/n], we've really got to run," Gideon urged, patting your shoulder and shaking his head towards Maxon. "Your father's been merciless with her schedule. Do you want to meet us in the library about an hour from now?"

"The library?" You could even hear your voice lighten. The library? The secret one, or some equally as enriching but disdainfully less exiting public one? "Like, the library? The, you know." You fanned the air. "You know."

"Yes, that library," Gideon finished as he reset his watch. "It's not like you need to hide from it anymore. King Clarkson's recording you either way." 

Somebody give you a short fade and call you Carlton Banks, because you were dancing like Tom Jones' It's Not Unusual was playing full blast throughout the castle.

"Oh, good heavens." Gideon sounded so wholly repulsed by your display it almost stopped you from completely rocking out. Emphasis on almost, of course. "What are you doing?"

"I get to go in the library again!" You cheered, swinging your arms in the air, akin an ape failing to brachiate from vine to vine. "I get to go in the library, I get to go in the library-"

"Get her out of here, get her out of here," Maxon urged, snickering while he pushed you alongside Gideon's wide strides. "G- stop! Go! I'll see you both later, alright? At the library."

What beautiful clarification! "The library!" You whooped. 

The next meeting—the briefings on turmoil in the Eurasian Republic—wasn't much of anything you hadn't either heard of or inferred. 

To recap, Empress Yùnyún of China had violated settlements agreed upon under the Treaty of Beijing to surrender lands off the coast of southeast asia to the Republic. New Asia is promising the retrieval of these territories for financial support in the war against Illéa. 

King Clarkson now is tugging on Swenday's sleeve, the Republic's closest ally, to dissuade them. 

Queen Amberly appeared mid-meeting, only to have preparations for an emergency arrival of the Swendish royal family thrusted onto her and later ushered off for her red light therapy. Only Swendway was intended for this rendezvous until she mentioned Maxon's insistence that members of the Eurasian Republic should be hosted, as well.

Most crucially, the director regent Sofia the Eager and her son, Alexei, which still sounded like an oxymoron. But the queen downright refused that responsibility on top of arranging for Swendway, so they'd be popping in at an unknown, later time.

"So a surprise." Gideon couldn't keep himself from crossing and uncrossing his legs, leering at the carpet of the conversation pit. Everyone else had long departed since. "Only until the oil embargo."

"You worry too much, Friedman," Guildenstern boomed, drunk on a combination of hilarity and actual alcohol. "Too, too much. All you ever do is worry. You need a girl, for once."

"What I needed was for the rest of the committee presidents present to constitute a quorum, and here we are."

By the time the two of you had left, you had to admit you were more fatigued then you'd like. Watching Amberly temporarily grace everyone with her bordering optional presence, omitted from legislative discussion, and hustled out to execute everything wasn't the nicest glimpse into your future, either.

Then again, she's the queen. Maybe as the minister president it wouldn't look as bleak? But you're still female. Might be the trophy female, too.

The more meetings you seemed to attend, the more awake Gideon seemed to be. "As for the situation in Africa, I haven't a clue how Malisha's acting mansa would go about destabilizing Fredonia's economy with all of it's safety nets."

"Have an empire refocus your labor class outrage from upper to middle, foster a coup, and install a compliant regime once, shame on them. Do so twice, shame on you," you yawned on your way out of the conference room. "We could learn a thing or two from those programs."

"Surely you jest. Fredonia's population is but a sliver of ours, as well their strength. In spite of being surrounded by multiethnic kingdoms, they're so homogenous you'd think they reproduce asexually."

You observed Gideon swing open the painting leading to the library. To comment or not to comment? "That was.. deleteriously chauvinistic of you. What of the dissension towards Illéa's current social network you carry?"

"It's still there. I'm a pertinacious person, yes, but I'm willing to put that aside when it comes to Fredonia." His voice lowered. "No country today is more pathetic than Fredonia."

Dang. That's a bit harsh. "Wh-what was the impetus for you to be so critical of them? To speculate parthenogenesis?"

"Colonization, for one thing."

"[F/n] [L/n]!" You flinched, turning around to see Maxon seated at one of the library's many round tables. "Would you care to explain something to me?"

You first exchanged a look with Gideon, who shrugged. "Uh." You glanced back at the prince, lumbering over. "Sure thing, Maxon Schreave."

At least there were hors-d'œuvres on the table. Come hither, said the spider to the fly.

To your relief, Gideon tagged along behind you, pulling a chair out for you and vice versa. What the blond had at his side was a newspaper, and a familiar header on the cover.

At that point, seeing the picture of you holding a saber a hair below Maxon's chin on the front page of the Capital Report, you surmised it's was better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

You slid the paper out from beneath Maxon's folded arms, nearly knocking over the platter of appetizers. "Hey-!" He started to say, but you were already flipping through.

'Of all our country's great traditions, perhaps none is looked upon with such excitement as the Selection. Created specifically to bring joy to a saddened nation, it seems everyone still gets a little giddy watching the great love story of a prince and his future princess unfold...'

Yes, yes. Get to the point. The exact same introduction every editorial uses, yes. Where, where?

As soon as you caught a glimpse of your name, Gideon had snatched the article from your hands. 

"What did we talk about?" He demanded, opening his coat and shoving the roll into an inside pocket. "You have better things to sink your teeth into."

You wouldn't be surprised if you were foaming at the mouth at this point. You edged closer to the principal advisor, who in turn scooter away at equal tempo. 

"Gideon, if I don't see what they wrote about me, I think I'll lose my mind." You were constantly rubbing the corners of your mouth, checking for any froth. "I need to know."

"There's nothing in there you don't already know. Even then, you shouldn't be looking anywhere for external validation; be confident in what you're doing."

"Sorry, Ralph Waldo Emerson." You reached for his suit. "But I'm not really in the mood for the whole ne te quaesiveris extra thing."

"On the topic of onlookers' opinions," Maxon's voice grew sharp. 

Onlookers' opinions? Gideon was saved by the bell. Your head snapped towards Maxon. Albeit, the aforementioned action startled him enough to sever his sentence, but he eventually continued.

"-Were you ever going to tell me how negatively the rest of the Selected viewed you, or was I supposed to learn that from them myself?"

Gideon rolled his eyes. "Another thing she clearly shouldn't have to lose sleep over."

"They do?" You pressed, brows knitting together. "I didn't think they'd dislike me that much. I don't spend enough time with them to scope any hard feelings."

"Of course they're going to dislike you," Gideon countered. "It was only a matter of time they discovered how close of a relationship you have with Maxon.

"Again, when King Clarkson says something's not a problem, 'tis not a problem. If you're to be a high ranking officeholder here and you're to appropriately act like it, don't bother yourself with their opinions."

"'Twas a problem with me," Maxon objected, crossing his arms like a disgruntled toddler. "Just because my father instructed her to stonewall the rest of the Selected doesn't give them the green light to talk about her poorly.

"Can you blame them? They don't know her situation—they think she's a competitor. Of course they'd react that way."

Maxon grumbled something incoherent to you, but returned to his upright position. "It's not even like they view her as dangerous. Just as, I guess, pitiful. So many have told me they were shocked with our interaction at the Report, and it just..." 

The prince shuddered. "I don't know. I don't like it. Is it really so below me to enjoy the presence of a Seven?"

"To be honest?" You maintained. Gideon coughed. "Probably."

"It's official." Maxon was leaning back again, glaring at Gideon, who was popping a piece of cucumber into his mouth. "I'm stripping myself of a couple castes. I am now a, say, Five."

"Sounds to me like you've caught a case of royal rebel syndrome." You, too, were eyeing the snacks. After all, you hadn't-

"Have some." A plate of canapés were pushed towards you. "I brought them for you. You think I didn't notice you haven't eaten all day?"

...Well, you hadn't. Staring at the platter of food, you picked a bite-sized piece up by a skewer. 

His tone wasn't at all tender, his comment close to accusatory, yet your chest felt lighter than before. You raised the starter to your mouth, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Thanks." 

"Don't take what they say about [F/n] personally," Gideon continued. "If it bothers you that much, then add it to the criteria. The Selection's due for another elimination, a nit-picky rubric always helps."

You could feel Maxon burning a hole into your forehead, so you spoke between chews. "I'm fine with it, Maxon. I'll have to become pretty blasé with strictures if I'm to work here, anyways."

"But you shouldn't have to!"

You shook your head. Stop being so considerate. Please. "People say a lot of things when they feel threatened or jealous; you shouldn't let it define their character for you."

Maxon has steam billowing from his ears—it looked like he'd spontaneously combust any second now. "Plus, on a more realistic note I'll barely even see the majority of them with this new schedule your father's made for me."

"You-" he struggled, pointing a shaking finger at you. Then, one to Gideon. "She-"

"Take your time," you coaxed. From underneath the table, unknown to the prince's eyes, Gideon stomped on your foot. Hard. "Ow!"

"It's official," he solemnly sounded again.

"That's the second time you've said that today." You could see the shift in Gideon's sitting position just in time to neatly cross your legs, avoiding another kick.

"I'm considering being nice to you as a requirement for my next wife," he announced with a wolffish grin. "Crazy, I know."

"Like that does anything to minimize your legitimate pool of interests." You matched his smirk. "America is self-assures enough to not give me or the other girls the time of day." 

Gideon piqued a brow, a small smile etching itself onto his face. "America? America Singer?"

"What the-?" A brilliant scarlet hue bursted across Maxon's cheeks, his head farting between you and Gideon. "What do you all look so happy for?"

"I might not know much other than what I've seen on the Report, but she's feisty and a lower caste!" Gideon chirped. "Naturally, marrying for love is top of the list, but if it's with a Four or below, that's a bonus! Think of the representation she'd bring to the table!"

"Trust me." You pressed a hand against your heart. "I doubt she's even thought of thinking of me as a possibility."

Gideon was clapping. "That's lovely, Maxon!"

Maxon had both of his hands in the air as though he were at gunpoint, but his eyes conveyed something you'd see accessorizing a sullen child's pout. "Note that I have neither confirmed nor denied that statement."

"Oh?" Your voice lowered to a mystical whisper. "Is there another?"

Gideon's applause had been replaced with two hands clasped together in prayer. "Please let it be Lady Whisks. Lord knows we need it."

"Gideon!" Maxon blubbered. He was still fuming, it seemed. "And no, it's not Elise. Like I've said, I prefer someone with opinions over a doormat."

Doormat? All bets are off. "Okay, never mind what I said awhile back, I'm bothering you about it. Are you sure you're attracted to women with strong opinions, or are you just all dazzled and intrigued by the idea of someone disagreeing with you, as barely anyone argues with a prince, and you've mislabeled the feeling as romantic incorporated it into your concept of a partner?"

The prince answered without missing a beat, flexing his fingers. "When deconstructed, all sexual preferences stem from origins in which we're lacking something, psychologically or physiologically, and seek to compensate it via romantic partnership. So while you may be right, I've long decided that I physically cannot do anything about it."

Both of Gideon's hands were over his mouth at this point. You still had a wooden pick between your lips, which at this point hung limp.

"Oh, wow," Gideon was the first to speak. "Wow."

You had to think of something. "You're mixing disciplines that were meant to oppose one another. Explaining classical Freudian theory from a social-cognitive perspective-"

Maxon saluted you, and Gideon started snickering. "Nice try, officer."

"[F/n], it's okay to be wrong," Gideon reassured you, which only irked you more. "On the other hand, he did say you were technically right. Ah, well, aren't you happy he's reading?"

"Not anymore," you replied, which got Maxon laughing along with his friend. "Now he's just attacking me personally."

"Alright, alright," Maxon said. "On a more serious note, there's no way on god's green earth Gideon would've invited me here to chitchat. My grievances are out of the way, what are we here for?"

The mentioned man's warm brown eyes gleamed, scanning the shelves behind Maxon's frame. "Right. On the subject of [F/n]'s housing reforms. Perhaps it could give her exemption from the queen's project the Elite need to do?"

“Housing reforms?” Maxon parroted. His gaze met yours, a glint of recognition present in his eyes. “That’s what you’ve been planing?”


	15. Personal Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader finally realizes something, but before she can think too hard on it, she’s swept into more and more duties.

"That's what I was waiting for you to bust out with during your interview on the Report? A project for housing reforms?"

You rubbed the back of your neck. "I didn't want to steal your thunder, project myself as stand-offish to Illéa, and upset your father all in one go, so I decided to stand down last minute."

"But.. housing? What's the plan? Do you.." Maxon shifted in his seat. "Do you need an investor? I can handle that. What amount? I don't need that much of the company in return."

Smiling, you tried to sum up all of the money you had stowed away. "You don't need to give me anything monetary, Maxon. I wasn't squirreling away my poker chips to use them as coasters."

"The current municipal housing provision we have in inner-city areas is in need of work," Gideon jumped in. "Government action is preferable over private enterprise, but so long as your father's ruling, improvement can't be promised."

"So I've decided to bite the bullet. I plan on purchasing dilapidated real estate, renovating it, and helping the tenants living there learn to rely on themselves."

"But you'll-" Maxon looked to Gideon, as if you make sure he was listening. Upon seeing he was, the heir's eyes and arched brows returned to you. "You'll be running this sideshow during the events of the Selection? As what, the CFO? The CEO?"

"I'll at the very least be the founder of these associations, but I've-" Gideon shot you a glare, and you sighed. "-But Gideon has restrained me from biting off more than I can chew. 

"I'll front the foundation, but incumbent general managers will deal with the technicalities. Less load for me and a more personal experience for the residents," you concluded, pleasantly surprised with how the idea sounded out loud. "Huh. No wonder the one percent generates revenue so easily. Get people to bureaucratize themselves."

"Don't you think the tenants will want to rely on you rather than use your generosity as a leg up for their financial problems?" Maxon pried. "If there's no benefit in becoming independent they'll leech off you."

"Some might, but an equally as prominent part of the poor in Illéa want to learn to better themselves. If we help that population out, then you the crown won't have to spend as much on handouts."

"I say if they can't pull themselves together after, give or take a couple bumps in the road, five years, we phase them out by the end of the decade," Gideon said. "Easy fix. People might get mad, but they can't avoid joining the work force."

"Hmm." Maxon combed his fingers through his hair, his eyelids drooping ever so slightly. "I can't promise anything wen it comes to exemption from the queen's project, but it sounds plain slow. Isn't entrepreneurship supposed to be exciting?"

"Depends on what you consider exciting," you replied. "The apartments I'm looking at are already around 75% occupied, so the time looks okay."

"Here I thought you were going to start a plain old charity." The prince took a hors-d'œuvre, rolling and inspecting its grill marks in his hand. "Sounds fine with me, then. But if it interferes with your current affairs or emotional health I won't allow it." 

"I'll be the majority shareholder of the company. That's it." On a lighter note, you added. "I'll be keeping around 50% of the equity, but I'd be willing to give you and other palace officials anywhere from 30-45% of the rest."

"The crown can't purchase stock."

"Then liquidate your personal assets. You're legally an adult."

"Almost everything I own is in trust."

"Mais á culpa, you're scared of taking a relatively safe risk." You interlocked your fingers only to untwine them for an accentuated, open-hand gesture. "I implore you buy at least 5%. 'Twas Ray Kroc who said "If you're not a risk taker, you should get the hell out of business.""

Maxon grinned and mirrored your movements. "Change of plans. I'm going to buy 40% and encourage my affiliates to buy 10% altogether to only to dismiss you as a delegate."

"Okay," Gideon's voice was barely audible. "I'll be on my way, thanks."

"Don't be shy!" You motioned to your metaphorical riches piled onto the mahogany surface in front of you as Gideon shrank. "You deserve more of a.. a bella figura! 25%! I insist! Please don't let this guy remove me!"

"Gideon gets 1%," Maxon decided with a crooked grin, rubbing his eyes. "Nothing more."

You mimicked him. "I take it back. This'll be sole proprietorship. You guys suck." 

"To be fair, all of these numbers sound erroneous to me, but I'm not knowledgeable enough in the markets to dispute it," Maxon expressed. "So I'm just going along."

You eyed his haggard expression. He looked how a majority of the Selected described you the first day you were here; an amalgamate of the exclamations of disgust. "How many hours of sleep did you get last night?"

Maxon swirled his stemless goblet of lime-flower water. "I don't have to answer that."

"Then how's your leg?"

Maxon nudged your leg with the foot in question. Underneath the silk and cashmere fabrics, a hard, plastic appendage timidly collided with your calf. "Casted and covered."

"His leg?" Gideon looked beneath the table for the masked, appendicular skeletal bandit. "Which one?"

"Oh, wow." In perfect synchronization, you knocked yourself on the side of your head while Maxon began to tousle his hair. "There's been too much going on. You weren't there, were you?"

"When some rebels attacked... what." Maxon started to fill in for Gideon as he sat up again, but ended up losing his own train of thought. He looked at you, bug-eyed. "Two days ago? I nearly forgot that happened!"

"Right?" You exclaimed, pushing your chair onto its back legs and casting an incredulous glance Gideon's way. "Say, where did you go during that rush? We presumed the palace."

"You were injured?" Gideon stood, yanking you up with him. In similar fashion, the delegate reached over the table, grabbed Maxon by the collar of his suit, and tried at pulling him up in a much more gentle tug than he had you. "That settles it. [F/n], please bring the prince back to his bedroom and ensure he gets some rest."

You watched as you recovered your footing, dejected. Favoritism. "Please, Gideon. I'm a grown man, I can handle myself—not remotely tired, either."

"Sleep will quicken your healing process. Get him some vitamin D supplements, as well. Maxon, I'll be clearing your schedule for the rest of the day. I cannot let you attend anymore meetings when you aren't in prime state."

"What? No you won't," Maxon asserted as you careened around the table. "I have a-"

"On it." You latched onto his arm. "Apologies, Maxon, but I am shadowing him presently, which overrides my future placement under your orders as minister president."

Gideon looked to one of the room's many grandfather clocks tucked away in different divots of bookcases. "You still have some wiggle between now and our next conference, so we'll reconvene in half an hour."

"No it doesn't!" Maxon's voice ran shrill, tearing his arm out of your grasp. "I have a.. a..."

You retracted your hold, but held your stare on Maxon. In a matter of minutes, his gingerbread eyes had phased through the five stages of grief. The blond sighed, cupping his cheek. 

"Fine."

"Yay!"

"Thank you."

*

"You're going the wrong way," you interpolated.

"Because I'm not going to my room to sleep," Maxon elaborated. "We're going to your room to read."

You grabbed Maxon by his hips (as you could not reach his shoulders without your heels rolling) and began to steer him in the opposing direction. "That's funny."

"You're funny." Maxon, still, dragged you along like a moody horse would it's rider.

"I only have, like, three books there," you insisted. "Wouldn't you much rather like to lie down, some chamomile tea at your side, listening to lullabies?"

While Maxon wasn't facing you, you could see the tips of his ears engulfed in fuchsia flush. He glanced over his shoulder, and his face bore the same, scarlet shade. His voice was quiet. "You saw my music box?" 

You blinked. Wait, he actually had a music box? You were just spewing anecdotes. "I- no?"

His pace kicked up. "Now we're definitely not going to my room."

"Wait!" As soon as you lost your hold on the back of his suit, the prince broke out into a style of speed-walking that you couldn't hope to recreate in your current shoe wear. "Wait! These soles are cardboard!"

Of course, a man in trousers fairs better sprinting than a woman in a cocktail dress. So the former arrived at your room's entrance ten seconds flat before you. Even worse, as you screeched to a halt behind him, you could hear a trio of gasps.

"What the-?" Maxon was completely blocking what was open of the doorway. No matter how you tried to sneak around or peak over him, you couldn't see a damn thing. 

"Oh my gosh!" You were currently trying to hop to Maxon's eye level, desperate to catch even a glimpse of the room's interior. "Your Majesty!"

Finally, like a lovecraftian god having risen from its millennia-long slumber, Maxon tapered inside. "What is this?"

You zipped past Maxon and into your bedroom just in time to see Marca, Zafira, and Anima scurrying around, hands full, like rats in a kitchen when a light turns on. Your eye caught a mess of things Anima was picking up in one fowl swoop.

Some of the books Maxon had given you—two standing upright and parallel on the floor, and the last laying across the top of both as if to form some arbitrary gateway or ark.

"The books!" You shrieked, staggering over to where Anima was crouched. Sure enough, there were Maxon’s three borrowed books along with Women, Race and Class and The Permanent Revolution. "What were you doing with the books?!"

The honey blonde was blue-screening. "I- uh- um- we-" 

Zafira swooped in, scooping up the books in one hand and a sniffling Anima in the other. "Believe it or not, not everyone can read at a level that high, so we found other uses for them."

"You were playing with them??"

Your heated debate against Zafira and Anima was, however, cut short. The contentions formulating on the tip of your tongue dissipated at the sound of a nightingale's giggle.

"What on earth?" Maxon was knelt beside Marca, his hands filled with palm-sized charms of twine and clay. "[F/n], what are these things?"

"Oh, no," you heard yourself say, rising to your feet. On cue, Marca scurried over to you while Zafira rushed over to the newly empty slot beside Maxon. 

"We're not sure, Your Majesty." Whatever side of Zafira this was, you've barely witnessed it in action. Suddenly, her hands were folded behind her back, her head dipped in reverence, and her voice calm and courteous. "We found them underneath the missus' bed while cleaning."

"They're nothing, they're nothing, they're no-urk!" You had made a run for Maxon and the trinkets he was gathering in his hands, but in throwing in the kitchen sink, your shoe got caught under some drapery.

"Oh my goodness!" Maxon exclaimed, voice alight. "They're too cute! Is this a ladybug? Is this a frog? Look at all the butterflies!" 

This cannot continue. Cannot. Will not. Shoving your arms beneath the satin, you wrangled free of your fabric chains just as Maxon, rolling the thin figurines through his fingers, turned to you.

The widest grin you'd ever seen him don had slapped itself across his cheeks. Your next step toward him quickly felt like a plunge knee-deep into quicksand. "Hah, [F/n], what is this all for? When did you make them? Are you that bored here?"

"There's more." With you still entranced with the prince's bell-like chuckling, Zafira lead Maxon to a cabinet. "We put the more intricate things away."

Zafira's dainty hands reached in, rummaged around, and Maxon's laughter came to a crashing halt. 

What your damned maid pulled out was about a yard long strip of pure white brocade, something you had absentmindedly woven early this morning and something that looked horrific. 

What was it supposed to be? Great question. A scarf? A shawl? A pullover? Some kind of contemporary take on a chlamys? It was a gray area between it all, and not at all functional.

You were just messing with fabrics, really. Making designs as you went along—awkward shapes of multicolored organza were clinging to the main material by a thread. Needlessly sparkly embellishments were scattered throughout the composition like you'd spilt crystal chips over a sewing machine.

And, of course, you had used possibly the worst inspiration for the vague patterns sewn you could've, given the current people in your room.

Amberly's bouquet. The one Maxon had showed you in her and King Clarkson's vow renewals. The one in the first picture he'd ever taken.

They were what the different organzas—an iridescent ivory and a holographic heliotrope—were trying to imitate. Large, spindly silhouettes of off-white and tyrian purple stretched themselves across the silk, awkwardly geometric, detailed with oversaturated leavers lace. 

A distorted, two color scheme, monochromatic mess with a monogram chain of motley baby's breath for trim. That's what it was. You could feel your skull retract looking at it.

And there was Maxon, who you had no doubt in your mind recognized the flowers. "Oh," he breathed, lifting a hand to his face as he held the design a millimeter from his eyes. 

"There's more like it," Zafira trudged forward nonetheless. "All extravagant in their own ways. My favorite was this one cable knit wrap—the most beautiful color mauve you've ever seen. Now, where did it go..?"

"You're such a-" the prince snickered, running his hands through his hair. He craned his neck over to where you were, smiling broadly. "You're such a- what are you, my grandma?"

Something in you snapped with that.

"Okay." You averted your eyes, feeling seasick. You know what you make looks objectively bad, but god forbid Maxon sees them, everything is so much worse. "I'm leaving."

"Milady?"

"[F/n]," you heard Maxon crow from afar. Not far enough for you to shudder at his velveteen vocals. "[F/n], [F/n]. You dork."

"You know, now that I'm thinking about it." Zafira rested a hand on her jutted hip, lambent eyes finding her two associates. "We have a dress series to work on, right? In the sewing and tailoring room?"

"W-We do?" Anima blubbered.

"We do, actually," Marca grunted as she hoisted Anima to her feet. "We should really be on our way. Your Majesty, miss."

"Don't-" you started, but they were already gone. 

Your maids are one thing, but that was beyond unprofessional even for them. You were so close to throwing a...

You looked at the floor. You were so close to throwing a tiny wooden grasshopper at them it wasn't funny. 

"Are these for me?" You felt something meld itself to your back, nestle into the crevice between your head and shoulder, and when you looked down, Maxon had taken your hands in his, as well. "They sure look like it."

Your heart was beating too fast for this. Your chest too tight. Your breath too shallow. "Uh, the night of the Report, I felt bad leaving you outside with your father and Silvia."

"Sorry?" Maxon took his head off you, allowing you enough dexterity to properly face him. "I told you I'd be fine. There's nothing to feel bad about."

You gasped. "That's funny. I kept telling myself that, t- what are you wearing?"

"Hm?" Maxon adjusted his rhinestone-encrusted headpiece—a metallic mayhem made to mimic a flower crown complete with gold-gilded sprigs, crystalline leaves, and wire structures of flower and foliage dipped in tainted horse glue to fill the cringeworthy outlines. "You mean my crown?"

Oh god, it looked so bad. You could feel the acid reflux coming on. "Yeah, your crown. Please recycle it."

Maxon smiled, and his gaze dropped to the statuettes littering the floor. "I think it looks cute. I'll be keeping it on. Are those for me, too?"

"I only planned on making three or four, but turns out playing with clay is very soothing." The animals and insects ranged anywhere from beavers to snakes, all reaching new heights of disappointment. "Things got out of hand."

Just... this was bad. You knelt down, your vision obscured by hair as you piled everything into your hands. "Look, I get it. You don't have to accept them all—odd, tiny, and easily lost aren't the best attributes for a gift."

Maxon didn't respond as you fumbled with the prickly carvings and ornaments. This only made you hurry more, mortified to think of whatever apology Maxon was concocting as to why he wouldn't want your things.

When you turned to check the other side of the room, Maxon was leaning against a corner of your bed, a small smile present still. 

"Can I see them?" He cooed. You hid your face as best you could behind what you had in your hands, and approached him for a view the mound. 

Without pause and with a dreamlike smile, Maxon scooped everything out of your hands and into his, like dustbin to trashcan. 

"These are the first gifts I've received from someone else during the Selection," he sighed, tilting his head. "I love them. I'm keeping it all."

A silence fell over your room. One where you checked your pulse, and softly cursed at its sledgehammer beat. 

"You should meet up with Gideon," he finally said. "I'll head to my room and take a brief nap. You know." He raised his cupped hands. "Find a place for my new personal items."

Just like that, you're feet forced you to the door. "Y-" you said. "Yeah. Maybe you could liquidate them."

"You're such a p- never!" You closed the door before you could see any of the prince's reaction besides the intensity in his voice and gasped for air.

You felt like you had pigeons pumped into your stomach only for someone to punch you right in the gut. Jesus, what is with you these days?

Something was definitely wrong. Look at you. Carotid arteries, stiff hands, tight chest.. 

Okay, okay, okay, think. Most of these symptoms would suggest that you're sick, but you're almost certain you'd know if you were. Nor have you been exposed to anything new in the past few weeks that would take such a toll. Not to mention, only when Maxon oh no. 

Oh no. 

Oh no. Every waking realization you've been having as of late is a slap in the face. Oh no. Oh no. Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh god. 

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. No, no, no, no, no. No. No! No, no, no. He's your friend. That's all he'll ever be. 

"[F/n]?" You looked up, and saw an unhappy-looking Gideon approaching from the distance. "Why is it you and Maxon never meet me half- are you alright? You look feverish."

Seeing even a fleeting look of worry on Gideon's face cracked you open like a butter knife to an egg.

"Gideon.." you squeaked, cowering and crushing your hair beneath your fists. "You're going to be furious with me."

"I am??" Gideon shook his head, tutting. "What are you saying? Come with me. Our next meeting was postponed after I announced Maxon was to be absent."

So Gideon lead you to the Mars hall, where after situating yourself on the upper floor—a new experience to you—you spilled.

"I don't know, though." Gideon had been rubbing his temples for the past five minutes. "I cant remember the last time I harbored anything reminiscent to romantic feelings for someone. I wouldn't know what it was like."

"Uh-huh."

"You know how some people who identify as either bisexual or asexual say they grappled with either orientations, as neither had any basis to differentiate the romantic and platonic affection? Because they felt the same towards everyone?"

"Mm-hm. You're a smart girl, [F/n], do you think it's romantic?"

You checked your forehead. High body temperature. You checked your hyper realistic reflection against the table. Flushed. 

"No." At that moment, you checked your tone. Defensive.

Gideon rose a brow. "You clearly d-"

"Okay, okay, okay, it's not that bad." You felt your face. "It's really not. I'm infatuated, not attracted. This is just temporary. I'll be fine."

The advisor nodded. A sweet silence ensued.

"If not, I think I have everything figured out from an emotional standpoint," you began. "After some hypothesizing, I have three strong theories, which likely overlap."

Gideon groaned. "King Clarkson is going to have your head. He's going to think you just wanted to get closer to Maxon through a different route."

"One! The Selection has been affecting me more than I had assumed it would. I've been convinced- no, gaslighted into thinking have feelings for Maxon when I don't."

"That's a very incorrect use of the word gaslighted."

"Two! The suspension bridge effect. Maxon and I have shared many high-stress, multi-stimulus experiences together. The body's physiological, autonomic arousals and/or behaviors specific to love and fear—increased heart rate, elevated perspiration levels—are eerily similar."

"[F/n], reasoning in circles with yourself will not lead to some miracle solution."

"Three! Okay, you're right." You dropped your head into your hands. "William James and Carl Lange cannot help me here. 

"But it's not like I plan on acting on them. Making moves on people out of my league isn't my thing, and worser yet, he's gonna be my boss. Seeing someone at work is one thing, but that would be ridiculous."

"That's good."

"But how do I stop this?" You hissed, slamming your hands on the table. "I don't want to these feelings, dammit!"

Gideon croaked and slammed his hands on top of yours with equal rigor. "Don't do that! Both your hands and this table are very delicate! And don't say that, either. We're in a public area. People already thought you liked the prince before this epiphany."

"It's not like I can put space between us without straining our dynamic! We're friends! How can I effectively bottle everything up and let it wither over time when we keep interacting like this?"

Gideon's grip on your hands slacked, and he leaned over the table. "[F/n], listen to me," he spoke, his voice low and calm. "You're one of the most admirable people I know. A cool, calculating Seven who managed to get into the Selection when the lowest ranking ever admitted was a Six."

Deep, steady breaths. "Yes."

"You're someone who, in a matter of weeks being here, slipped your fingers into more government operations than some officials here have seen case files for."

Gideon released one of your hands, then squeezed the other. "Then surely you can put these feelings aside. Handle your impulses, maintain your dignity, let this all blow over. Am I right?"

When Gideon started nodding, you followed. "Right."

Pushing it away, crushing it all deep down... it wasn't the typical line of work you used that method in, but-

"Lady [F/n]?"

Oh good god, you're useless. Oh god. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. Gideon rose to greet the man behind you.

"My queen!" Wait, what? 

Replay the audio. Without turning around, duh. That voice still sounded identical to Maxon's... maybe it was a bit higher pitched? More tender?

Gah, stop it! Amberly's here! You stood and slid to Gideon's side of the table, curtsying. "My queen."

Whatever red light therapy is and whether it works or not, Amberly looked tiredly radiant and radiantly tired. Her wine ball gown, her sienna hair tightly rolled in a low bun updo, her perfectly tanned skin...

All was in order besides the flat look in her hickory eyes. "Good morning to you both," she replied, nevertheless sweet as honeysuckle.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, my dear queen?" Gideon inquired, hands nearly folded behind his back. 

The queen's gaze shifted. To you. "Well, sir Friedman, I was wondering if I can steal Lady [F/n] from you," she explained. "I've been authorized for one personal assistant in my emergency preparations for the arrival of Swendway and the Eurasian Republic's ambassadors. I would enjoy her company."

You opened your mouth, but Gideon nudged you along. "Of course, my queen. By all means. Take care."

You shot Gideon a look, though he was all too attentive to Amberly's humored response to notice. You would assume that, as a previous Four, Gideon would a appreciate her ascension to royalty, as well. 

"Thank you, especially on such short notice," she chittered, extending an arm to you. "Shall we?"

*

"So what exactly do you need me for, my queen?" How was she walking in a dress that long? And faster than you?

"It's rather embarrassing.." She sighed, forever alternating between keeping pace with you and speeding up. "I don't mean at all to offend, but the delegates speak so fondly of you, and I could use your expertise on something."

After going down another two flights of stairs, you and Amberly arrived at a large pair of double doors. Her hand reached for a door knocker carved in the mouth of a lion, but in the dangerously short instant before, it was swung open from the inside. 

You dodged, but Amberly got nicked on a sleeveless shoulder. You were about to apologize for not thinking to catch her when you saw an array of knights carrying a decked out billiard table out. 

And another. And another.

They all seemed oblivious to why Amberly was holding her shoulder, looking pained. 

Mathouchanh skimmed the two of you, and almost dropped his end of the table to bow. "Good morning, my dear queen! Madame!"

"Good morning, Mathouchanh," you muttered.

A chorus of "my dear queen"s and "madame"s followed like a train you were stuck behind waiting to cross, you always returning the greetings. It was by the fourth or fifth guard where Amberly looked to you, eyes conveying a single question: they call you madame now?

When the assembly line had finally left, you caught the door, holding it for your new companion. "Are you alright?"

The queen smoothed her gown, brushing past you with a warm smile. "I'm fine. I suppose they're installing the.. shufflers."

You tailed Amberly in to be met with a large, sumptuously-decorated room painted in dark purple and bronze pillars that came straight from the Parthenon. Diamond-paned, French windows covered whatever walls faced the outside, and on the rest hung portraits of each generation of the Illéa and Schreaves in oils, but no actual photos. 

It had been, at least you supposed, stripped of all decor save for an ornate marble mantelpiece. Amberly posed herself underneath a large crystal chandelier, staring at the long stripes of tape on the floor.

"I'm not sure of Swendway's people," she said. "But at least with the Republic, their officials are known to enjoy, to put it plainly..."

Ohh. So that's what this was. You could see why Amberly was acting so out of her element.

But couldn't she just have asked the hosts of Minerva's lounge? It's not like them or their affiliates have anything better to do.

"There's been a problem contacting the hosts of Minerva's lounge." Ah. "I was hoping you'd be able to help me with planning and catering—I haven't a clue how to do this."

..Was this offensive? You considered the concept. Did you feel offended? Amberly sounded like you should be. It felt weird, at least. A little negative.

Your fingers massaged your neck. Maybe you've gotten too used to people here wanting your help from a place of higher sophistication. Like Maxon. 

You flinched at your last thought, and a reaction formation stirred within you. "Can we turn up the air conditioning? The chillier, the better.

"I'm not sure to what extent we can alter the scent pumped in here, but certain aromas are known to invigorate gamblers, and are a necessity for any high class house. I had a combination in my head for awhile..." you pressed your eyes. "What was it?"

Guards started filing in again, new and improved 12-ft pool tables. They didn't really have that signature furniture in Minerva's lounge, just a series of large, circular tables, like ones you'd see in a dining room. 

The short, green felt and the thick, slate beds were.. 

"Right." You snapped your fingers. "Amber, bamboo, basil, cinnamon, cedar, crisp apple, fig, green tea, jasmine, lavender, lemongrass, lime, mandarin, oakmoss, orange blossom, peppermint, pomelo, sandalwood, satsuma, sea salt, tiaré, tonka bean, vanilla, and white tea."

Someone had laid paper and pen on a table. You hurried over, flipped a sheet over, and began writing the percentages. "We'll need some humidors. I know a lot of our state officials smoke Cohiba or Montecristo.

"Side tables for food—it's usually better to gamble on an empty stomach, but most of these guys don't know that. What's some of the oldest wines we have here?"

"Off the top of my head, I know we have late 20th century wines from château Margaux, Latour, and Lafite Rothschild. I'm sure theres more in our cellars."

Leger, who was carrying his end of a billiard table one-handed and bickering with Avery, waved to you. "I'm sure that will suffice, though I will admit I don't know what kind of food we'd- hey!" 

So much for Leger's bravado. Despite him and Avery's immeasurable combined strengths, as soon as he dropped his hand, the ledge of the table he was carrying by so much as a finger slipped. 

If the two any farther away and Leger put up any shorter of a futile struggle, you wouldn't have gotten there in time to grab it's side. When you recovered your stance with a grunt, you were met with Avery's eyes.

And he looked scared. In that freeze frame of a moment, Avery, too, let go of the table's second side. 

Okay, you're strong—and until now had a much stronger guard to help you—but a billiard table is still pretty damn heavy.

You were seconds away from bracing for impact when Queen Amberly jumped in, shoving the wooden corner over her shoulder and hoisting it up. Together, the weight of the table was next to nothing.

You looked at one another, and the panic of the moment washed away. When Amberly started to laugh, you followed. 

"I'm sorry, my queen, but is there a royal fitness gym I wasn't aware of?" You joked. "I've never seen a One or Four handle 500 pounds as easily as that."

"I'm not all skin and bones, I promise!" She chuckled. "Before the Selection, I worked on my family's farm. It was quite labor intensive."

Oh, typical Seven work! Even though you hadn't ever felt a pride attached to your caste—any of them—you perked up. "Really?"

Your interaction, however, was cutoff by Leger and Avery. Each had their hands in each other's hair, but seeing as Avery had short twists whereas Leger had an overgrown buzz cut, it was obvious who had the upper hand.

"What's your problem?!" Avery demanded. "You could've hurt the queen!"

"Stop- stop! I'm tender-headed!" Leger shouted back, breathless. "You dropped it first!"

"You dropped it first and I dropped it second!"

"I know! I was hoping you'd forget if I was assertive enough!"

"Dude!"

"Talk about a cat fight." You murmured into Amberly's ear. 

The queen laughed again. Her hands were restrained, and she was unable to cover her mouth to create a picturesque ladylike giggle, but the smile that spread across her slim cheeks could undoubtedly light up a room.


	16. Meanwhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader tends to the side stories.

The remainder of the time spent planning was easy. You were useless with food items, but you did your part contributing to interior design.

"When will the Swendish and Eurasians be arriving?" You asked, watching the view of the winter garden grow more and more glamorous as the sun set.

"Three days." Amberly was currently ticking off a master list. "If we stay on this track, most everything should be ready right before. I'll request for a shipment of blue-tongued skink will arrive on time."

"Such a shame," you mourned. Amberly shielded her face from outside viewing with her papers. "The Republic will have to make do with their wasp crackers."

You took another once-over of the current layout and decor, eyes narrowing. "One more thing, though: does this room have electricity, or is the sun the only light source?"

"Oh, this is one of the older parts of the castle." Down to the same dialogue, huh? "The chandeliers can provide some light, but not enough to keep the room well lit."

"I thought as much." You motioned to the windows. "As grand as the skyline is, I'd like to think form follows function, especially in a defense-based castle. Maxon has similar windows."

When Amberly seemed to soak your sentence in, and you knew you'd said something wrong. 

Then, suddenly, she sprung back to life. "Oh, of course!" She exclaimed, shaking her head. "He told me about the mural. I swear, my memory scares me at times. Yes, the right wing of the palace has mostly no artificial light."

Oh. You were already narrowing down the pool possible different subjects to discuss when Amberly initiated for you. "I'm glad you're here to stay. Goodness knows Maxon's reign will need someone like you in it."

It took awhile before you registered her reference to the dinner the night of the Report. Her presence was so passive and her husband's so suffocating you'd nearly forgot she was witness to it. 

"As am I," you chimed. You weren't sure what to say besides that. That's rare. 

"Do you like him?" What? "My son."

Huh? You came close to cracking just then, but caught yourself. The question wasn't romance-related.

Think logically. Amberly now knew your dynamic with Maxon, and you'd presume she'd be skeptical of its genuineness. Rightfully so, at that. You virtually took up one of the very limited slots in a competition for Maxon's hand from young women who could've really been Illéa's next queen. It was.. selfish.

But, thinking about Maxon with his stupid flower crown and stupid cape-thing you made for him, you couldn't get yourself to answer how you wanted to. "Ha. I mean, where to begin? You've raised him nicely.

"I'm sure you already know, but it's unparalleled how funny he is." You wiped your forehead of the sudden perspiration you'd accumulated. "In the few weeks I've been here, I've laughed more than I have for a few years now. He's hilarious.

"Secondly, he's intelligent.” Amberly giggled. “Really! He likes to keep it under wraps for some reason, I don't know. I can't imagine why he'd want to be so debilitatingly humble about it all the time. Personally, I think it's best to pick and choose times to be modest. But he is."

Amberly was simply nodding away as you struggled to shut your mouth. "Kind, comprehensive, creative, passionate, optimistic, vibrant, talented, altruistic.."

Seriously, quiet. Have you bit your tongue yet? Good. "My queen, if not for how amazing of an individual Maxon is, I'd have been stripped of my case my first day here."

You curtsied. "I have him to thank for the opportunities I have now, and I promise my intentions are nothing but good. And while I know he's too nice to ever consider me subordinate of his in the near future, minister president is underneath king. I vow, as his friend and coworker, to serve and answer to him and only him."

You thought you would've assuaged any ill faith she had in you, but you couldn't get any definitive read on Amberly's reaction. Her eyes kept boring into you.

"Do-"

"Mother!" Oh, boy, that's really Maxon this time.

You whirled around. Maxon, red in the face, was marching towards you and his mother, clutching a glass mug half-full of dalgona coffee. Did he actually go to sleep?

"What are the two of you talking about?" Why'd he sound so mad? 

"Um," you blurted. "We're debating a transcendentalist perspective on how bees operating in a hive-mind collectivist socioeconomic structure could determine the tangibility of true communist state, as per classical marxism definitions."

...God, you're such a moron.

Silence ensued the moment that 19th century worthy run-on sentence left your lips. Maxon stared at you, no doubt knowing that was a flat out lie, but even then a throbber was near visible above his head. You sighed and waited, your embarrassment mounting by the minute. 

As soon as whatever you just spewed about classless society was successfully absorbed, he squinted at you. On the other hand, when his focus returned to his mother, you could hear his teeth grind. 

Your head was already hanging low, but you'd be cowering if such an infuriated glare was directed at you. Great, now you made it worse. It seems like all you can muster nowadays is inflammatory commentary.

Yet, when he addressed you, he sounded almost sympathetic. "[N/n], would you mind if I spoke to my mother privately?" 

The pity-grade drop in his voice stirred a lot of things in you, but you pressed your forehead against your thenar and nodded. 

"I was about to ask if I could leave." With that hopefully incomprehensible comment to the royals, you slithered out of view.

You were seriously debated bashing your head into a pillar. You looked up to see a large armoire on the other side of the hallway, your sorry reflection holding its heart in the mirror bolted to its front.

You pointed at it. "Get your shit together."

*

"Leger, Avery, get your shit together," Markson called.

Avery was speechless, looking you and Markson's way in the sidelines and pointing to his sparring partner. "He- he's just copying my moves!"

"And?" Leger bit, resting his orichalcum rapier over his shoulder. The other half of their group, Woodwork and Tanner, listened on, frozen in the middle of a simultaneous attack. "It's not against the rules and it's working."

Avery threw- no, jettisoned is a better word-jettisoned his hands into the air. "He's not developing any of his own fighting skills!"

You matched the aggression in his voice. "If you're going to swing your arms around like that, drop your weapon!"

"I-" Avery noted the sudden tip of a sword dancing about his nose, accompanied by a whistle. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I don't know, what the hell am I doing this time?" Leger hummed. 

"You're attacking me!" Avery hovered his trembling hands inches away from the blade, akin to someone prepping to smash a mosquito. "We aren't in a match right now!"

"I'm not attacking you." With his perturbingly advanced handiwork, Leger rolled and pivoted the rapier as though it really were a mosquito. "Last time I checked, oxygen's public domain."

"He's-" Avery looked back at you, his pupils pinpoints by now, and pointed to his unbothered dueling partner. "He's attacking me!"

"Not attacking you."

"Attacking! Me!" 

You started to unsheathe your longsword. Markson placed a hand over yours and pushed it back into the scabbard.

"Don't," he instructed. 

You sighed. And here you thought you'd be allowed to rough people up here. Most definitely immature boys with too much testosterone for them to know what to do with, at least.

"At this point, this is all I can think of."

"They're guards. They should know how to act civilly." Markson looked on, calm as ever. "More than that, you matched them for personality. Pretty excited about their compatibility, too, if my memory serves me."

"Don't remind me." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Even I can make mistakes from time to time."

"Let's give them some time," he suggested. "They could warm up to each other eventually."

"Captain! Madame!" You heard Avery bellow, grimacing. 

You leaned Markson's way. "But for now, we're live. Is this how we want the knighthood projected on national television?"

Markson's unaffected expression wavered, and he finally shook his head. "No," he sighed, sliding his dory out of his belt loop. "Hey!"

You were pulling at your hair. This was stressful, but in an entirely different way than what you were used to. 

"What, you want to settle this with good sportsmanship?" Avery dropped his greatsword beside him in a thunderous clang, his fingers edging towards a xiphos concealed in his holster. "Fine. Hand-to-hand. Let's go."

"That is not what I meant!" Markson shouted. "Leger, for the love of god, put those up before I trade them in for styrofoam pocketknives!"

"What?" The accused has already flipped out a pair of sai from either of his pockets. "He started it!"

"Madame?" You followed the voice, and found Woodwork approaching you, fiddling with his broadsword. "Do you think you could give this to your maids for fixing? I think I may have chipped it."

You took the sword and inspected it. Nothing besides a near unnoticeable dullness seemed off. "Sure, but why not one of our actual swordsmiths?"

"They always seem to do better than them," he answered stiffly. When you didn't respond, the guard rubbed his arm. "Tanner and I were thinking we could rotate."

"I appreciate it, but unless you have a switchblade on you, I'd advise letting Markson defuse the situation." Woodwork pulled a dagger out, and you grinned. "That was a joke."

"Yeah, no. It's a problem." Tanner padded to his partner's side, sliding his lance into his quiver. "Something's gotta give eventually, right? We have night training today, too. Don't want them at each other's throats with bayonets."

"That'd be ideal, wouldn't it?" You dodged a swipe of an Abdelmagid brothers' straight shortsword, watching the two breeze by. "I have high hopes for them, but.."

Locked in lethal ballet and unconcerned of their surroundings, Jang's halberd nearly spilt your head down the middle like a meat cleaver. The wielder hopped onto the rails of the winding stairway, raining hell on Chae's guandao. 

Why can't they be like that? Knowing you'd regret it, you looked back at Avery and Leger. Markson had taken out his cutlass by now.

Tanner ducked to allow a katana to whiz over his head, but beforehand nodded. "Yeah, no. It's a definite problem."

Woodwork, on the other hand, blocked the following wayward ōdachi with his (armored) forearm. The user stumbled, grunting, and was quickly overpowered by his opponent afterward.

"Not cool, man!" The guard, Mertin, yelled, already having been driven to the other side of the training grounds by his rival, Abel.

It appeared the pen was mightier than the sword. Woodwork hadn't batted an eye at the bout when a sword was headed for his neck, but flinched at the harsh words, rubbing his arm.

"Then watch where you're going!" Tanner barked back. You wouldn't be surprised if he'd added "dumbass" at the end if not for you standing in front of him. 

"This is starting to get out of hand, right? Or is it just me?" As Tanner asked that, a kris was kicked the three of you's ways, skidding to a halt beneath your raised heel.

You followed its line of motion to see Yamada pinned to the floor and his arm futilely reaching for his weapon. Charles was on top of him, holding his war hammer across his back and smiling sadistically.

"You're right." You looked over to Markson. The captain had both of the problem children holding their asses on the floor. "Can I call it?" 

"Sure," he yawped.

You faced the sea of toddlers with sharp objects. "Stop!"

Like falling dominoes, each guard paused, turned to you, and slammed the blunt end of their weapon on the ground. You waited for the wave make it to the farthest reaches of the throng when a cry of joy echoed throughout the grounds. 

Everyone tensed and searched the back of the crowd. The only animate people were Hunter and Mathouchanh. Hunter had a battle axe raised over his head where Mathouchanh had a small collection of kitchenware. 

"Yes!" Mathouchanh shoved his butter knife into a crack in the floor as he rose to his feet, a steak and butcher knife in each hand. "Screw you, dude!"

Hunter, who was making direct eye contact with you, checked his posture and gave you a wimpish salute. 

The redhead saw that as an absolute win. "What's wrong, b-" you supposed it was then he noticed how mannequin-like the others were. "Oh, no."

You nodded wisely. "Oh, yes."

After Markson pulled Mathouchanh aside, you had everybody return their weapons to you. The general population was not very happy with this.

"Why the long faces, fellas? We'll be working with guns pretty soon." Cole announced to his companions behind him, dropping his shotel into your hands. Someone behind him whispered something, making a slashing motion with his trident, and a handful of knights laughed. 

As soon as the final guard solemnly handed his chokutō in and filed into his rexducere, Markson returned with Mathouchanh and threw him back into his group. Hunter caught the guy, accompanied by Charles.

Matter of fact, those two—Avery and Charles. Maxon had roughed them up in the garden, sure, but they seemed to have recovered. They reconciled with you after you approached each, at least. Avery was easy to find yesterday.

They understood your position as the arbitrary bodyguard well, so there was no bad blood, and all had reverted back to a tutor-tutee relationship. You couldn't say the same with Maxon. You tried to assure them that he only meant to intimidate them and nothing more, but they were reluctant to agree.

Still, like Maxon, you too had one person you needed to make up with, and seeing Avery and Charles act so comfortably around you proved a stinging reminder. 

From what you've seen of Kriss since the Report, she hasn't spoken with you.

The fact that King Clarkson's meddling in your routine left no time to actually be a member of the Selected wasn't helping, either. You want to patch things up, but haven't a minute to yourself he wouldn't snatch up. 

You're sure she's given Natalie enough hints that she'd be wary of you, and your friendship with Elise was already semi-strained by nature...

See? Stressful. If your hair could turn any whiter, it would've. 

And, of course, Leger and Avery can't keep themselves from acting out because they have the mental capacities of an old shoe and a dead rat. This isn't preschool, and they aren't four. Or Fours, for that matter.

"We have to do something about them." Markson stretched. "You're the anthropologist, what do we have to do to get them to get along?"

"Sociologist would be a better fit in this case," you recommended.

Markson took no damage. "You're the sociologist, what do we have to do to get them to get along?"

"Well, we've tried team building activities, which only further showed they have nothing in common besides hatred for team building activities." You started counting trials on your fingers. "We've tried letting them duke it out or grow on each other by constantly pairing them up. We've tried uniting them under a common enemy, kind of, with the entire rebel fiasco."

"Admittedly, it's hard for new kids to imagine this place as one of the worst safety hazards in Illéa when they haven't been through an attack yet," Markson said.

You nodded. "I suppose it is. We'd have to galvanize them ourselves at this rate."

"Mm. Take matters into our own hands, bring the rebellion to them."

"Precisely. A nice wake up call and way to have them buddy up."

"..Yes..."

You and Markson looked at one another. Mischievously. 

"So," you began. "I'm thinking we wake them up in the middle of the night with a simulated attack on the palace. Early, early morning."

"We'd need an excuse for why Tanner and Woodwork wouldn't be with them unless they'd be in on it. Or why they wouldn't encounter any other units, for that matter."

"Then they're in on it. Then we could say the other rexducere are dispatched throughout the palace. Make it out to be a stealth mission: an attempt on the king's life, a bomb planting, something along those lines."

"Good in theory, but those two are sharp." You followed Markson's gaze over to Woodwork and Leger, who were going through their reps. "We'd have to make it pretty believable."

"What's the layout of the guard's quarters look like? We can brainstorm."

"Lady [F/n]." Let's see.

Madame was for knighthood, [L/n] for government, milady or miss for the maids, just [F/n] for Maxon or the Selected, [N/n] was exclusively..

So a reporter? You turned, and saw Silvia tapping her foot at the base of the winding staircase. Oh. You'd forgotten about her—supposed she wouldn't call you [L/n] if a gun put to her head.

"Miss Silvia," you greeted with a curtsy. 

"There is to be an announcement in the Women's Room in ten minutes," the royal planner said. "I expect you to be there."

"Of course." As Silvia strutted off, you patted your outfit. "I suppose that's my cue. Let's discuss this later."

"It's fine, I'll be wrapping it up soon. You seem to be juggling a lot of things as of late, [L/n]," Markson mentioned. "You sure you don't want to spit anything out?"

You flashed Markson a look. "Did any royal advisors put you up to this?"

Markson shrugged, smiling. "I'm neither willing to confirm or deny that suspicion."

Gideon, that oaf. Rolling your eyes and tucking Woodwork's broadsword under your arm, you headed off to your room.

Letting go of anything else on your schedule would be plain lazy at this point. You already dropped the thousands of interviews you had planned for yourself, King Clarkson already dismissed you from most of the Selected's activities—what are they trying to mold you into? Nothing more than some front for gender equality in the palace?

Please. Ever since your first night out in Minerva's lounge with Maxon or Gideon, half of the things that came out of those men's mouths were-

"I'm just saying, their gifts serve them best in the home," you heard about advisor down the hall joke, much to the cheer of whoever else was with him. Maybe Bommineni. "Course, with them, they need to be their own breadwinner. Who here would marry someone like Silvia? Just saying, just saying!"

"It really is a shame that women nowadays are bullied into taking up jobs with all of these "progressive" ideologies as of late. Let them be housewives! The feminine nature of a woman is in their biology. So sacred, so ancient-"

"And it's what we want! High caliber men prefer high caliber women." That was Molina-Jadav. "We're workers, and we want a server. We're leaders, we want a follower. A submissive presence to balance our domi- hey, [L/n]! Why the rush?"

You gave the three men a drive-by curtsy. "Salutations, everybody! Announcement in the Women's Room is all."

"That's another thing." You were sadly in earshot of as you sped off. "Why is there a Women's Room? Why are they keeping an entire sex from going inside? If we made a Men's Room, people would beside themselves."

What, you mean any place where a meeting is held?

...So you doubt they could turn that off so easily in front of a camera. Okay, whatever. You were here. 

"Hello?" You poked your head through the door. 

"What do you mean, hello?" A languid voice replied from the palatial bathroom. "This is your room. You can come in."

"Milady!" Anima skipped out of the bathroom, one of those dupatta-looking hybrid disgraces you made in hand. "You're back early!"

You tried not to gag at the atrocity. "Yes, uh, announcement in the Women's Room that I need to attend. Need to change my clothes is all. Oh-" you placed Woodwork's perfectly sufficient broadsword in her hands. "And this."

"Oh my gosh! Another one!" Squealing, Anima felt the blade. Soon, though, her excitement fizzled out. "Er, milady, do you think you could point out to me what's wrong with this sword?"

"Let's assume it needs to be sharpened." Wiggling your boots off, you waddled to the corner of your bed while Zafira came behind you to tend to your hair.

"Miss, would you mind if I proved a point?" You heard Marca squeak as you undid your bodice. Zafira groaned, and Anima muttered an "oh my gosh" under her breath, so you knew it had to be good.

"Sur-hrk!" Something caught your neck so forcefully and so steadfastly you nearly bit your tongue.

You fell backward into Zafira's arms, grabbing at whatever had snuck it's way around your neck. You recognized the silky material, and craned your head around to see Marca holding either end of your canopy bed's drapery. 

"Milady!"

"Marca, what the hell?" You gasped.

Just like that, Marca dropped the bed curtain. "See?" Neither Zafira or Anima would look at her. "You saw how good that looks."

"Not over her gagging, no." Zafira pulled a bobby pin off of your head, and you could feel a mass of hair hit your shoulders.

"I'm telling you, stripes are in. Chokers are in. We need to be ahead of the curve if we want to keep up this elusive chic we have." Then, a perfunctory. "Sorry, miss."

"Marca, a dress like that would be awfully curve-defining." Anima started slowly, shielding your neck from any other attacks. "It's not very reserved for a princess."

"Plenty of the other Selected have been foxy in their outfit choices." You couldn't see her, but you could tell the brunette was crossing her arms. "Now that America and [F/n] have them dressing milder, we flip the script and go bodycon."

Zafira sneered. "We're trying to get her married, not lai-"

"Oh my gosh, you know what? I think a nice, plain, nice a-line dress will do the trick!"

So you sprinted to the Women's Room, wedges in hand (efficiency purposes), only putting them on the second before you entered. Seconds after you entered, Silvia came in through the opposing door.

"Ladies!" She called out, attempting to quiet whatever commotion either of you had just walked in on. "Ladies, are you all here?"

Everyone sang their yeses back to her.

"Thank goodness for that," she said, settling down. "I know this is very late notice, but we've just learned the king and queen of Swendway and some directors of the Eurasian Republic are coming to visit in three days, and as you all know, we have relations in the Swendish royal family. 

"Also, the queen's extended family will be coming in to meet you at the same time, so we're going to have quite a full house. We have very little time to get ready, so clear your afternoons. Lessons in the Great Room immediately after lunch."

Clear your afternoon? Not to be cocky, but did that part apply to you? You were about to follow Silvia out when your shoulder hit someone else's.

"Oh, I'm-" you pulled away, looking up and right into Kriss' cognac eyes. "S-"

Oh, jeez, she looked horrified. In impeccable Avery fashion—besides not holding a pool table—she backed away and into Natalie.

The usually happy-go-lucky blonde held your gaze so stoically you felt static prick at the back of your head. Her ocean blue eyes seemed like glaciers—heavy, unmoving. You wondered how much she knew.

"Hey," she finally said. 

That was enough for you to know you weren't wanted, but you tried anyways. You submitted to Natalie's stare, and instead focused on winning over the one she was protecting. "Kriss, I-"

"Wow! Someone take a picture!" God, not this brat. "The one and only [F/n], gracing us with her presence!"

Didn't you come off as enough of an idiot to her initially that she'd leave you alone? Sure, you insulted the eventual obsolescence of her career, but that's besides the point. 

"Could you give me a minute?" You posed, signaling for a time out. "I'm trying to have a conversation."

You're sure Celeste responded with something catty. Your main concern remained with Kriss. "Can we talk outside?" You begged. "Please?"

Kriss shook her head, and Celeste was quick to exploit it. "That's interesting. What'd you do to get her panties in a twist?"

If she wanted to get on your nerves, she'd have to say something way less ignorable. Your lowered your voice. "If you don't want to talk to me, talk to Avery or Charles. I don't want any bad blood between any of us, okay?"

"Oh, I know!" Bariel gasped, snapping her fingers. "You crashed her date!"

Thats right, because the only thing you, or Kriss, or anyone in this room is good for. Dates. Everyone's here to play dress up on a T.V show, and that's all that's every on anyone's minds. Dating.

Apparently, your lack of response was interpreted. Celeste cackled. "Did you really?"

The model sashayed her way to you, Natalie, and Kriss. "Aw, what's wrong, geek? You're worried?" She bent over, her nail an inch away from Kriss' cheek. "You're right that he's not into you, but why be worried about a girl who came close to belching when somebody asked if she's kissed the prince?" 

Natalie helped steady Kriss, and Celeste's target changed. "Or this airhead, for that matter. Geeks and bimbos. None of you will make it past the Elites."

You turned, hand on your hip. Your sister would be disappointed in you, but this felt necessary by now. 

"Are you really going to make me do this?" You sighed, cracking your neck. 

Celeste eyed you. "...Do what?"

"Make you cry!" You grouched, pulling out locks of your hair. "In front of all of these people, no less! And it'd ruin your mascara, which would be a shame. It's gorgeous.

You hit yourself on the side of your head. That was the point Natalie started backing away from, hugging Kriss. "Sure, I'm a bit rusty. I haven't made someone full out sob in a year or two, but it's all in here! I could pick you apart and have you running out here in tears, and I would hate to do that to you!"

"Uh," Celeste said.

"Plus, if you made a scene, I'd have to explain it to Maxon." You could hear the dial-up noises going off in the girl's head. "I mean, I don't think he'd be that mad. But it'd be a lot for me to handle!

It seemed Celeste was finished recovering. "Okay, if you're trying to act unhinged, I want you to know you're embarrassing yourself. Do you want all telling Maxon you're off the wall on our next dates?"

"By all means, start a log. See, I'm actually needed here for purposes other than eye candy, and I recently got some really great news that I no longer need worry about what any of you think of me. So, while I'd love to remain in everyone's good graces, given how little it affects me current time, I could honestly couldn't care less if the lot of you wanted me dead. 

"Now that the preamble's out of the way, where do you want me to start? Your job?" 

Celeste paled. "I've already mentioned your job before. The first time you called Kriss a brainiac, matter of fact. I don't think enough of our gals remember it, do you? I guess I could refresh everyone."

"[F/n]," you heard Kriss begin. "It's- it's fine."

In that instant, the two participant conversation between you and Celeste fractured. Marlee squeaked first everyone to calm down from someplace you couldn't see, but it bounced off the walls.

Her shaky plea was followed by a wave of all-encompassing, uneasy murmurs, spreading like gangrene about every rounded corner of the room. Maids you'd just noticed that had the inconvenience of being present bustled around, either leaving or offering cups of tea to the most unsettled or charged girls. 

You were offered some: Egyptian chamomile. 

You politely declined, and then you left the Women's Room. Seconds later you leaned against the nearest wall you could find.

You were going to SCREAM.

Sociology what? Anthropology what? You can't even communicate properly with a room full of women! God! 

This shouldn't be so difficult! Why can't you knock people around, like during training regimens? Shit, you can't even do that too much with the guards now with all of the cameras on you!

There's never need to have some kind of simulated psychotic break to prove a point! And now Harmony's rolling in her grave!

Your head hit the wall. Oh. Harmony. 

...Get up and fix your hair, you still needed to help Queen Amberly with preparations for the arrival of Swendway and the Eurasian Republic. 

Afterwards, you're sure you could find Gideon in the Mars hall to discuss your housing project. And then there's night training with the guards, which is far more important than what you do in the day. You need to find Silvia, too.

You know what? It's fine. It wasn't that big of a deal. They can't hurt you—you wouldn't have said any of that if there was a statistically significant doubt in your mind they could. After at most a year or two, only one of those girls will be remaining, and god knows the one definitely won't be Celeste. Everyone else will forever be the king's rejects in the eyes of society, snatched up by Twos and Threes starving for public exposure. 

You can handle one girl, hopefully. Probably. She'd warm up to you eventually. You'll be all buddy-buddy.

Come on, come on. You forced your feet to your will. Let's move. You wanted palace life? Here's palace life. Work. Don't start slowing down now that you're hitting some bumps in the road.

"[F/n]?" Man, talk about a bump in the road. "Good, I was just looking for you."

Before you could say hi, Maxon was already flipping through papers like Gideon did conference notes. "About my mother and I's education plans, what are your thoughts on making college education free to anyone below a Five's average salary?"

You held your head. Uh, okay, so you're supposed to answer that question. "Give me a moment, that had a lot of words."

"..What?"

"I like it. A bit of academic inflation could help destabilize the current economy of Twos and Threes. Afterwards, maybe not free, but serious preferences in admissions. It's good for us to atone, but over-saturation of college degrees will prove detrimental over time."

"Start hot and heavy and fall back into lighter things. I can do that. Lowering tuition and student loan interest rates is easier on our finances, too."

"There's always encouraging alternatives such as vocational schools or military, but I'm not sure how we'd go about that." Was there anywhere to sit?

"I was thinking about offering student loan forgiveness to families making under some total annual income. I'd also like to put some caps on some private universities, but I don't want to ruffle the feathers anyone that could shake the table."

You snickered, and Maxon stopped mid-scribble to give you an exceptionally dirty look. "What?"

"You don't want to ruffle anyone's feathers," you repeated, raising your hands. "You're going to be the king, man. Do what you want."

Maxon looked at you like you had three heads. "Did you hit your head recently? You know it's not that easy."

"It will be when I'm in charge, anyway. What're the traditionalists gonna do? They're all getting high in Atlin right now—I recommended a resort."

"Private universities, carry a certain prestige, you know! Some communities prioritize pass rates over academic integrity. Like you said, if nothing were there to stop everyone and their dog from getting postgraduates, then-!" Maxon crossed his arms. "I don't want to step on anyone's toes."

"I just think it's funny," you said. "The heir to an absolute monarchy doesn't want to impose on businesses."

"So I've decided without you. I'll be putting funds towards welfare programs and K-12 so the general population doesn't feel obligated to go through college."

"I'm talking with a prince, and as we're talking, he expresses distaste for authoritarianism. Because god forbid the autocrat intrudes on social institutions."

"And I'm talking with someone whose treading on real thin ice for sometime who wants to work with me for the rest of her life."

"Hey, Catherine the Great, you know enlightened despotism isn't real, right?" Maxon reddened and began to grumble. "You can stop trying." 

"Oh. My god.” As Maxon’s trembling hands tensed, your sniggering worsened. "I'm trying to be a nice ruler. Shouldn't you thankful? As a Seven? "Oh, thank you, your Majesty, you're so kind!" That?"

"Your Majesty!" You gasped, pointing daintily to his fists. “Mingling with a woman with a raised fist? How raffish!”

“What, I’m being uncivilized because my hands are in view?” He deadpanned, turning then to nobody in particular. “Question for the gentlemen out there—is it considered rude to have prehensile, multi-fingered appendages located at the end of your forearm?”

“…Pardon, your Majesty?” Someone who you could only presume to be a guard answered quietly. 

Maxon fell into a fit of coughs, and in some type of unprecedented medical feat, every drop of blood in your body rushed to your face.

“Guh-“ the prince began in a gulp of air, pushing you in the opposite direction of the guard. “Oops? Anyway-“

Both of your hands were sealing your mouth shut, forcing any maniacal laughter brewing back down your throat. “You dumb cretin. You fool. You absolute buffoon. You bumbling idiot-“

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not,” he defended. “There’s- there’s usually no guards in that area. I don’t know what’s going on. He shouldn’t be there. I’ll have him executed shortly.”

“It’s for the best,” you replied as you picked up your feet. 

“Hey, what does your schedule look like for the rest of the day?” Maxon leaned over your shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but today’s been draining, and I could use some company.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Max, but I’m pretty occupied up until 11:45 tonight.”

Maxon rolled the rejection off his shoulders. “Not a problem. I’ll just follow you around.”

“You will not!” But he did. Up until 9:00 at night, around. And it pretty fun—enough to keep you awake well into tomorrow morning, trying to slow your heart rate, so it would seem.


	17. Short: [F/n] and Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh tysm for 100 views!! As a gift (and as a sorry for how weirdly paced the last chapter was), here's a tidbit of the adventures of young reader and her sister!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains blood/semi-graphic depictions of injury

[A/N]: Ahhh tysm for 100 views!! As a gift (and as a sorry for how weirdly paced the last chapter was), here's a tidbit of the adventures of young reader!

Warning: contains blood/semi-graphic depictions of injury

«What in God's green earth?» Harmony lifted her head from between her knees. «Hobos?»

"Oh, great." The girl grumbled, rising to her feet. Her eyes dropped to the body in front of her slumped against an ebony crate, snoring. She gave it a hard kick to the side. "Get up."

«Hey!» The slumbering awoke with a cough, curling in on itself like a pill bug. 

"Kgh-! Wha- Minnie?" The boy sputtered, and patted the guitar case on his back. "Hey, hey, watch the instrument, sweetheart."

"I told you not to call me either of those," she replied sourly. "Where's [F/n]?"

As the boy propped himself onto his elbows, a smaller lookalike of the girl emerged from his stomach area, rubbing her eyes. The boy rolled his eyes and motioned to the child.

"Present," he yawned.

"Huh?" [F/n] stretched, a somnolent haze still heavy in her eyes. Her drowsiness seemed on par with the boy's, if not a bit worse. She tried to stand. "Minnie? Are we there yet?"

Like she took a lighter to all previous contempt in her countenance, Harmony crouched down and scooped the girl up with a heavily sweetened gasp. "Hi, hi! Don't worry about it, Abel was having a nightmare."

«Get outta here, ya pricks!» Abel side-eyed Harmony, but busied himself with slapping the side of his head until he felt cognizant. 

«Pricks?» [F/n] repeated, looking around.

"So we're going?" Abel asked.

"No, I was thinking we'd move farther up." Harmony pointed to the front of the wagon. "No shit we're going. Does he sound happy to you?"

"Jeez, somebody woke up on the wrong side of the crate."

"This wouldn't have happened if you had sucked it up and put your feet on the damn janney cable!" 

"Not this a-" Abel looked to the sky, shaking his head. "As I've said, I thought I'd blend in fine enough with the wood."

The sound of creaking wood and metal was approaching due north at a daunting speed. The two teenagers, quietly, began to make their way down the cabin. "The wood? Are you messing with me? What part of it? What part of the wood?"

"Whatever, whatever, whatever," Abel exhaled the words more than he spoke them. "There's no use in complaining about it now, princess. Let's go. Why did we have to choose the freight train with a small country of security guards?"

"I don't know, why the f-"

"Stop right there." Abel jumped to the other cabin. "You can't be cussing that much around [F/n]. Kids absorb all that."

Harmony secured [F/n] against her chest with a huff and hopped into Abel's arms. "Please, she's nine, she doesn't listen to anything I say anymore. Where are we this time?"

"From what I heard, we had a good eight hours left, so somewhere between Hansport and Waverly, I bet. Most people there speak French—we'll probably need [F/n] to translate for us."

"Eight hours?" Harmony hissed, weaving through the rusted bolts and dust mite-ridden cargo. At that moment, she and Abel looked off into the landscape. Nothing reminiscent of civilization for miles. "Yeah, not happening."

"The train's going 60 miles per hour," the little sister added. "That means we're 480 miles away from any urban area that we know of."

Harmony pinched the bridge of her nose, whereas Abel applauded. "Precocious as always! You must feel lucky, Minnie."

"Why did I tell you my real name?" The brunette sighed.

"My gentlemanly charm, duh. Don't get so down in the dumps-" Abel swung around a pole, gleefully gazing into the grassland abyss. "I think I see a river over there! Rivers always lead to civilization!"

Harmony held [F/n] out in front of her as she ran. "Okay, [N/n], we're gonna have to leave you behind. If someone finds you, you're a Four who was abandoned by your parents, got it?"

[F/n] looked only slightly horrified, starting to pat her sister's dirtied face. "Sure, I guess, but what about you?"

"I'll be fine, don't worry," she reassured her with a smile, holding [F/n]'s hand to her nose. "I'll eat Abel for energy and follow the train. It's eastbound, so I can follow the sunrise."

"What?" She gasped. "You can't!"

"What?" Abel gasped. "I- thank you, [N/n]!"

"Not the brain! You could get kuru!"

Harmony blinked.

"[N/n]," Abel said. "What the heck?"

"Kuru? What's kuru?"

"A transmissible spongiform encephalopathy, or prion disease, named after the Fore people's word for shaking, kuru is a fatal neurodegenerative disease contracted by the ingestion of human brain matter."

Harmony ducked under a wooden beam while her sister continued to ramble. "Characterized by progressive cerebellar ataxia, it's only ever been found in cannibalism practicing societies, but it's incurable. Don't eat his brain."

"Not cool, [F/n]," Abel chided.

"Ohh." Harmony nodded. "Okay. Why do you know this?"

"Abel's contemporary history book."

A sound not unlike the honk of a drowning goose erupted from Abel. Harmony sucked in her cheeks, but laughter seeped through.

"I give you knowledge," he stammered, grabbing his worn satchel. "I give you knowledge, only for you to use it against me? My own passions, which I have humbly shared with you, turned on me?" 

"That's what you get for telling her all that folklore," Harmony mocked. 

"Folklore?" Abel echoed. "You're serious right now? For the last time, it's histor-"

Just then, a gunshot wracked the train. Abel and Harmony ducked, the former shielding the ladder. [F/n]'s breath hitched, and grabbed her sister's tee-shirt. "Oh, shit," he muttered. 

Harmony checked to see if her sister was okay. While [F/n] was saying nothing, she could see the questions she was too afraid to ask swirling behind her eyes. You weren't going to leave me here for real, right? That was sarcasm, right? 

Harmony looked away. "I wouldn't eat Abel," she recounted carefully, glancing to Abel. Abel wasn't returning the look, his eyes fixated on the savanna. 

"Actually," he said, shading his forehead from the blistering sun. "That's not a river. That's a road."

The train started to trudge up an incline. Harmony and Abel stumbled at the sudden shift, getting swallowed into the corner of the cabin. Abel peaked his head out still, and saw the grassy, debris-free terrain along the approaching hill.

"What are you doing?" Harmony asked as Abel unbuckled the strap to his guitar case. 

"Do you really think we can hang on like this for another eight hours?" The boy asked, shrugging off his bag. "They keep pushing us back. They'll have cornered in the caboose pretty soon, and it's obvious they don't plan on turning us in at their stop."

"We can sneak around them," Harmony proposed, huddling [F/n] closer.

"You're expecting us to outsmart a bullet through the head?"

"We've been playing cat and mouse for the past couple of days, haven't we?" 

"That was before they knew where we were!" Harmony flinched, and Abel sighed. "There's at least a dozen of them, some armed. [F/n] is nine, you can't fight to save your life, and while I may look like it, I'm no Hercules. We have to go. Now."

"I can't-" Harmony's watery eyes dropped to her sister she was cradling. "She can't- we'll have to leave her here."

"What?" [F/n]'s voice was meek. 

Abel aimed, and threw his satchel out, cringing at the angle which it fell. Surprisingly, while some of the contents were spilt, it didn't completely tear open. "We're going uphill—this is the only time the train will be slow enough that we'll have a chance jumping."

He laid his guitar on the ground with a kiss and turned to Harmony, arms outstretched. "Give me the kid."

"What?" Harmony's screech was so loud Abel was temporarily stunned. As he blinked and cleaned out his ears, the brunette skittered away from him. "You're kidding! She'd die! I'd rather leave her here than have her- her-!"

"You've seen me do worse with my guitar." And yet he was leaving it with such ease. Without warning, Abel grabbed [F/n], who was currently clinging to Harmony like a baby koala would it's mother. "She'll be a-okay. C'mere, [N/n]."

"We could-" Harmony persisted, clenching her sister's torn sleeves. "We could still- she's- they wouldn't- they wouldn't kill her. Sh-she's a kid. It's safer this way. She's smart. Let's just-"

In a sporadic burst of strength, [F/n] propelled herself off of Harmony with a kick to her ribs, indulging in a cushioned landing between Abel's arms. "You aren't leaving me."

During this exchange, the train rattled, and the engine started to strain in preparation for acceleration. Harmony fell backward, Abel grabbed a handrail and secured [F/n] against his chest.

"See ya soon, Minnie." With Harmony staggering, barely regaining her footing in her desperate crawl to Abel, the pair jumped.

"NO!" Harmony's shriek was louder than any gunshot exchanged on the trolley.

It was as if Atlas had released the sky. Like the train's roof has caved in on her, Harmony collapsed, head slamming into the musty ground. In her crash, the side of her head landed on a rusty, upright nail. It went right through her cheek. 

This time, though, she stifled her scream. Another, closer shot blazed through the cabin—maybe a cabin or two ahead. Tears welling in her eyes and hiccuping, Harmony placed both her hands on either side of her head and ripped her cheek off the nail with a pop. 

Unfortunately, the quick, jerky motion had yet another consequence. The nail's exit had been partially blocked by Harmony's tongue, and in the process of its un-burial, lacerated the side. 

"Fuck," she heaved, cupping her cheek. A warm wetness had already began to pool into her palm. Dripping onto the floor in flowering spatters of crimson. Coating her forest of hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Harmony's vision went red. She turned and grabbed Abel's guitar case. She turned back and flung it out the side of the cabin. 

"FUCK YOU, ABEL!" She screeched at the object she'd just chucked, and then threw herself just as angrily off the train. 

If there was an art to this, Harmony certainly wasn't getting it right. She flipped and fluttered midair like a cat pushed off a tree, trying to corkscrew her way into landing on her shoulder. As soon as her back touched the earth, everything was a blur. 

An invisible hand had grabbed her by the upper arm and slammed her into the ground, dragging her ragdoll body uphill with force of a rollercoaster. The presence of the train next to her was debatable—all she could see were swirling masses of red and green, and it's chugging faded in an out like a broken siren. 

Matter of fact, the only thing grounding the girl was the crystalline pain racking her body. No doubt her muscles had torn like below-grade, soggy cardstock. Her pulsating cheek still stung incessantly and immensely.

Harmony laid there, unable to breathe, for what felt like eons. When she could move her arms—at least one, but it felt like there was a dumbbell in her hand—she shimmied her shirt over her nose. 

Here the girl would think that her sympathetic system hadn't kicked in, but it seemed like the pain was only growing. So much for adrenaline if the best it can do is poorly shroud torn ligaments and nausea. 

As soon as she relearned how to regulate her inhales and swallow her spit, Harmony tried to sit up. The arm she hadn't landed wasn't in prime condition, but it was better than the state the other contender was in. The speed at which she did was a bit fast.

In an instant, another carnage of colors obscured her eyesight. The sun cascaded wildly down to the earth in frantic flickers of fuchsia and turquoise and lime. Leather clouds fell from the convulsing troposphere and seared the concrete floor.

A single, distant, tree hung over the scalding sky. "...ny!"

Huh. The tree could talk. "Harmony!" 

Harmony shook her head, and Abel's limping figure came into view. "Stop making me walk uphill and get down here!"

All grogginess in Harmony's mind had fled. "[F/n]?" She asked, still short on breath. Patting the ground, in a split second decision, Harmony tucked in her arms and began rolling down the hill like an oblong tumbleweed.

"Are you kidding me?" The brunette barely heard Abel's faint call, more focused on looking for him. When one (one?) figure could be seen warping their way up her spiraling vision, Harmony dug her hands into the ground and swung herself perpendicular to the hill.

She stopped in a matter of seconds. Just in time to feel her foot plant itself onto what felt like a hollowed rock.

"Queen of overcompensating, over here." Abel's voice was much closer now. "Get up, sunshine. If I can walk, you can walk."

Where was [F/n]? Harmony gazed up into the gray sky. "..Seriously, you good? Come on, you're starting to worry me."

Footsteps continued to approach, but Harmony could only discern one pair. "Hey, hey, Harmony."

Abel's thick head popped into view, blocking off whatever light was piercing through the heavy sheet of cumulus cloud. For a second, Harmony could've sworn he looked concerned. "Wow, you're out of it."

Right by his face was [F/n], peering curiously at Harmony's state. Like someone had slapped her across the face as she was dozing off, the startling visual had Harmony back to peak cognizance.

The first thing Harmony did when she'd gathered her wits was uppercut Abel in the jaw mid-sit-up. "You bitch!"

Abel keeled over, [F/n] sliding off him as he did. "Aaahhhk?!"

"Grabbing my sister! Jumping off a train!" Harmony beat her companion into the ground, tears spilling onto his sullied shirt. "Who do you think you are? You fucking idiot! IDIOT!"

"Cut it out!" Abel had retreated into fetal position, hands on the back of his head and neck like during a tornado drill. "I'm the idiot that saved your sister!"

"She could've died!"

"But she didn't!"

"ARGH!" Harmony reeled back, pulling out hair. "If you had any siblings, I- you're IMPOSSIBLE!"

"Whoa, whoa, wait a sec." Abel sat up, his face pale. "What happened to your cheek?"

"You happened to my cheek," she spat, and then looked around with a nascent desperation. "[F/n]? [F/n], are you alright? [N/n]?"

"She's fine. Let me see your cheek." Abel grabbed Harmony by the chin and brought her face back to his, tilting it ever so slightly. He cringed. "Ouchie."

"She's fine?" Harmony repeated in a croak, waterworks revamping.

"Yep. Just dandy. How'd you get this?" Abel, with a finger over the wound, applied the tiniest bit of pressure to the puncture. 

Harmony leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. 

Abel jolted with a squeak, slapping the area of his cheek that the brunette's lips had touched. However, after a millisecond of shock, the boy had transitioned into an impetuous, suave countenance. 

"Aw, doll," he crowed in his flirtatious leitmotif, tapping his lower lip. "That was sweet of you, but I think you missed."

Besides the tears, the expression on Harmony's face was horrendously nebulous to Abel. The only thing he could do was continue to ramble at increasing speed. "Only by a little! D-"

Harmony then cupped Abel's cheeks in her hands and shoved her lips onto his. 

If the butterfly kiss was a mild, pleasant surprise, this was being hit by a truck. And Abel was not prepared for it. None of the vexed vacillating or fluster in sight that he was used to dishing out from her had, as far as he'd seen until now, cracked her jaded demeanor. 

But here he was, on the ground, making out with Harmony. Not exactly how Abel imagined their first kiss—he'd always imagined himself leading—but a wonderful experience nonetheless.

Harmony had just gotten around to sliding her fingers into his hair when he felt a hard kick on his inner thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. 

He nearly bit both his and Harmony's tongue in reaction, breaking away from the kiss to roll and cover himself. "Augh!"

"What the hell are you doing to my sister?" A cold voice asked. 

"Don't you mean what was your sister doing to me?"

"Quit the histrionics."

"[N/n]!" To Abel's dismay, [F/n]'s reappearance had galvanized her enough to spring to her knees and cling to her baby sister's side. It was as if the entire, you know, heated kiss incident was wiped from her mind. "You're okay!"

[F/n] pet her sister's head as she wept into her shoulder. The girl looked to Abel, brows raised and a chilling smile donning her ruddy cheeks.

"You think you can make a pass at Harmony behind my back, huh?" She asked, her pitch high as though she were talking to a bug or leech she'd found. "All furtive like that?"

Abel sputtered like a car that wouldn't start. "Uh-"

"Alright, Jimi Hendrix." [F/n] pointed at him. "I like you, for the most part, and I don't want you feeling gypped when you go after Minnie and I have to intervene, so let's make one thing clear.

"For however long you want to stick with us, do yourself a favor and find some other beau or belle for your trysts. My sister is verboten. We've been running from the mess our father left for as long as I can remember, and the last thing we need bequeathed to us is the sexual frustration of another wanton invalid."

"What the-?" Abel blinked. Last time he checked, this was supposed to be a nine year-old. "Who taught you to talk like that? It wasn't me."

"Minnie did! I do listen to her.” Her age-appropriate squeak returned, but in evanescence. It dropped again. "Anyway. There's very little things you could do that I care about. This is one of them. Don't be a Don Yuan."

"You mean a Don J-?”

"[F/n]!" Harmony's sniffling reveille sounded. "Never let Abel do that again, okay?! If he grabs you, scream for me!"

It took Abel a minute to resurface, but when he did, he folded his arms, sitting cross-legged. "Whose feeling gypped? I'm not feeling gypped," he grumbled. "I was looking at her cheek. She's injured, you know? Harmony, come here."

"God.." the girl hooked [F/n] onto her arm and stood up, tossing her hair over the side of her face in question. "It's not that bad."

Abel stood up soon after. "Yeah, it kinda was," he murmured, approaching Harmony and brushing her hair out of the way. Whatever kind of laceration it was, it had started to bruise. Frowning, the teenager gave the circular center an experimental tap.

His finger went through. Through the fat in Harmony's cheek and into her mouth, hitting a dead end at her clenched molars. Harmony flinched at the sudden sensation, akin to salt rubbing a cut. After calibrating what had just happened, Abel's face turned blue and he snatched his hand away. 

"Oh, d- ahem, sorry," he half-gasped, looking at his finger with a unreadable, frozen expression. Almost on instinct, Abel wiped the saliva off on his jeans. Which somehow made him feel even worse.

The boy knew what was coming to him by then. He braced, but the sensation he received wasn't a slap or punch. Rather, Harmony grabbed a decently sized portion of his slim cheek, and proceeded to tug it around. 

"What the hell was that, pal?" Okay, this still hurt, though. "You see an injury and your knee jerk reaction is to manhandle it? What's wrong with you?"

"Ow, ow, ow!" I'm sorry!" The guitarist yelped, groping for his assaulted cheek, but could not regain the lost surface area. "It's not like I did anything, you know! It was already infected by the time I touched it!"

"It's your fault we were hopping trains in the first place, bozo!"

"Bozo?" Abel deadpanned. "That's the best non-curse you've got? Your sister has called me worse things. And you have no right to call me out when you stole a car no less than two days ago."

"You stole a car and I drove it after we argued for fifteen minutes straight about your penchant for violence and amorality!"

"You know what that's called legally, sweet face? Tacit approval. And for the record, I have a moral compass. I just think your whole holier-than-thou perspective on our current situation is a bit, I don't know, stupid."

"It's not my fault you think we can't have social revolution without blood being spilled."

"Because you- because you can't? Or without a dash of radicalism, for that matter! Sometimes to get this much change-" Abel held just arms out, leaving a sliver of space between his hands "-You need people rooting for this much change-" and he stretched his arms out.

Harmony scoffed and smacked one of Abel's arms, breaking his wingspan. "You said the Glorious Revolution was bloodless."

"Firstly, that was preceded by the English Civil Wad." Abel crosses his arms. "And secondly, you said that I made that up. Since when do you believe it's not just fairytales? When it helps with your argument?"

"I don't think it happened, but since you seem to think it did, I thought you'd finally realize how much of a hypocrite you are if you realized how much you're contradicting yourself. But no, you just came up with more mythical lore to defend yourself with. Quick thinking, by the way! The English Civil War? Creative!"

"Argumentum ad hominem," [F/n] refereed.

"How can you say it's fictional when there's no evidence it is?"

"Because there's equally as little evidence to suggest it isn't!"

"Appeal to ignorance, called. Fundamental beta error noted."

"I don't care if you think I'm idealistic," Harmony huffed, flipping her hair. "The pen is mightier than the sword. People like you are the reason Twos and Threes define the lower castes as barbarians."

"Good one, Gandhi. Make sure to put that in Freedom's Battle. I bet you think the people at the stonewall riots should've written to their governor, too."

"Freedom's Battle?" [F/n] echoed.

Abel groaned, cracking his neck. "Wow, this is why I'm in this for the long haul. God knows what would happen if I left Minnie to raise you. I'll find you a copy."

"[F/n] was being raised perfectly fine before your ass came along. And, for God's sake, stop calling me Minnie."

"What else is there? Doll? Sweetheart?"

"There's Harmony, jackass."

The atmosphere in the conversation had shifted, that was for sure. Back to Abel dishing out what he can't take. And as he slipped back into his usual witty commerce with Minnie, he caught [F/n]'s eyes out of the corner of his own. She was looking him dead in the eyes. Glaring. What did I just say? It said. 

And, suddenly, she fell to the ground in a sycophantic wail. "Ow!"

Just like that, Harmony was at her sister's side. "[F/n]?! [F/n], what's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?"

Abel rolled his eyes. "My- my leg..! Please don't touch it!"

"Where? Which part of your leg? Here? Can you move it? I know it might hurt, but will you let me move it? If you're hurt, I don't know what I'd do.."

"It must be because Abel broke my fall incorrectly!"

"WHAT?!" Harmony whipped around, fuming at the ears. "You said she'd be fine, you diseased rat!"

This kid. "Give me a break, Minnie."

"What if I can't walk again? I don't want to not walk, Minnie! I want to dance!"

"ABEL, YOU ASSHOLE, SHE WANTS TO DANCE!"

"YOU TWO ARE RIDICULOUS!"


	18. Socialize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Swendish royals (along with the in-laws) arrive!

You've concluded: this is bad.

"Why wouldn't he approve of it?" Captain Markson sighed, but your pestering hadn't ceased. "Not even the crown holds meetings that late in the night."

"It's not like we can do anything about it knowing or not knowing why, but if it helps, he didn't trust we wouldn't wake anyone up. Apparently the wife's a light sleeper."

"Please." Even now, Leger and Avery's bickering rang clear as day in the back of your head; the pair could be standing next to you. "It'd be four guys running around the ground floor. Nobody would be there to incite anything."

Markson rolled his eyes. "He's the king, [L/n]. What can you do? Besides, Tanner and Woodwork were getting cold feet by the time I pitched the idea."

Disdainfully, you combed the bureaucratic crowd beneath the tents for King Clarkson. Busying himself with a glass of wine while the count of Swendway chatted his ear off. "It would've been fun and effective."

"I know. Mainly fun." For a moment, the honed edge of Markson's voice was chipped. Grew soft. But not for long. "But it's not an option anymore. Back to the drawing board."

"Have any better ideas struck you since?"

"Not any we're discussing right now." You sighed. "Really. Your duties as a Selected come before your responsibilities towards two man-children. Don't you have socializing to do? Go on, git."

The remaining time you had with Markson wasn't long after he'd figured you out. Not like he was that persuasive, but you truly needed to get out there and interact. There simply wasn't much to do.

Swendway had arrived first, which you all knew would occur. The Eurasian Republic wasn't scheduled to show until later in the evening.

You hadn't much input on the construction of the Swendish part of the arrival, having participated chiefly in prepping for the Republic's welcome. The only thing you remember proposing was more attributes reminiscent of a sukkah to the pavilions, just to let some light in.

The food was pretty good. Virtually the same as the menu you and Queen Amberly decided upon in receiving the Republic, which was nice. Kumamoto oysters, king crab, blue lobster, black truffle pasta, dover sole, polmard beef, etc., etc.

You could see the pained expressions of each guard as they cycled through their posts, one being at the tables of meats and greens. Naturally, after making sure absolutely nobody was watching you, you started bringing plates of food to a crevice in a wall where the knights would rotate. 

Countess Margrethe II de Laborde de Monpezat was, besides her interactions with Queen Amberly, not happy to be here. You'd always see her ushering her Swendish bodyguards closer, glaring at the garden walls.

Vis-à-vis their female counterparts, King Clarkson wasn't dying to converse with the count. Nor were either of their wives, for that matter. You knew vaguely of the mukoyōshi-esque dynamic between the two—you'd assume no romantic feelings came out of the arrangement.

You thought Maxon was more than the de facto handler of most overseas relations, but King Clarkson wouldn't let his son anywhere near the discussions. 

Seriously. You were summoned more often to charm the countess with your conversational-grade Finnish than Maxon was a foot within range of the adults. Even the count and countess' heir was allowed to mingle with them!

Okay, so he's in his mid-20s, but you fail to see how that really matters. Gideon's over there and he's 23. The soon to arrive Alexei Romanov is 21. Almost everyone's roughly 20, so what's the big deal?

Thankfully, Maxon got over it as soon as he was tackled by a litter of pint-sized children.

He had six cousins. In descending order: the elder king of a whopping 16 years; a pair of fraternal twins that were 12; a 10 year old; a 9 year old; and the baby, who was 7. 

You knew the names. Taryn, Adrian, Dario, Lucena, Taren (yes, a Taryn and Taren), and Aelwyd. You did not know which child they were assigned to, so that was problematic.

But you also don't really like kids that much, so you were fine staying out of the way and letting the child friendly Selection fawn at them and Maxon from a distance while you ate. 

You hadn't spotted Kriss anywhere, but every once in awhile, you'd see Natalie, and she's a surefire way to find the brunette in question. Whenever you tried to catch up with her, though, she'd cling to the nearest Selected and chat away.

Not sure why, but by now you would honestly rather Natalie flip out than give you the cold shoulder. Joyful and expressive was the girl's default, as well as what you learned to warm up to. Her anger would sting, but at least it was more emotive than brick-walling.

Hence, you're wading around the banquet, stuck between a limbo of secondhand embarrassment towards Swendway's reception and guilt for how you've mishandled the situation with Kriss thus far. 

And, to top it off, there's kids running around, their shouts a step away from police sirens if they had a "prepubescent" setting. 

Sigh. You could even hear one now, buzzing about like a mosquito, narrowing the distance between you only to eventually-

"Shhshhshhh!"

What the hell? 

You jumped at the closeness of the voice, and looked down to see a well-dressed child sliding into the grass and underneath the table cloth like Jackie Robinson back from the dead. Reincarnated, at the bare minimum.

Before you could convince yourself you were hallucinating, the child poked his head out again. He raised a finger to his lips. "Shh!"

"What-?" You started, only to be interrupted by an asthmatic panting behind you. 

Maxon was propping his entire upper body onto his knees, wiping sweat off his forehead between breaths.

"Goddamn, he's fast," he wheezed to himself, flicking specks of perspiration onto the grass. 

Then, he noticed you. "[F/n]?" He coughed, fixing his posture and smoothing back his hair. "Whew! 

"Have you, uh-" he looked around, and raised a hand to around his hip. "Have you seen one of my cousins around here by any chance? Taren? Young, about yay high? A male facsimile of my mother?"

The second you opened your mouth, a cold, tiny hand grabbed your ankle. You sucked in a breath to keep from screaming.

"Are you alright?" He asked. You popped a sumptuous ruby chocolate tart into your mouth and flashed him a thumbs up.

"Mm-hm." You swallowed the pastry hard and pointed literally any direction but where you were. "I think I saw him heading for the trees."

Surprisingly, such an enthused response did not help your case. Maxon followed your finger, where both of you realized that you were not pointing at any trees, but a tent's wall. The prince began to back away, looking back to you warily.

"O..kay," he said. "I didn't want to say, but you've been acting off lately. Alas, we'll have to discuss this later. I have a jackrabbit to catch." With that, he sped off towards the implied tent.

Lately? Your blood ran cold. As in he's been noticing strange behavior in you before this entire occasion? What's that supposed to mean? What kind of strange behavior?

Upon his hasty departure, Taren emerged like an ancient deity rising from millennium-long slumber, dabbing the grass stains off his brow with the end of the tablecloth. 

Maxon hit the nail on the head with that description: he was a gender-bent carbon copy of Queen Amberly. The same dark eyes. The same tanned skin with the same olive undertones. The same wavy, near black hair with the same maroon sheen. Taren looked more like the queen than her own son did. 

Grabbing the bottom of your dress, he pulled himself up. He nodded to you, a silent thanks for something you'd rather not have done, but his glance of acknowledgment soon stretched into an awkward stare.

"Um," you said. You tried to pry your dress out of Taren's hands, but it became very clear very quickly he'd let the fabric rip before handing it over. He simply stared, eyes shining. "Can I help you?"

His other grubby hand pointed to one of your sun-bleached fly-bys. "Can I touch that?"

You tucked the targeted piece of hair behind your ear. "I'd rather you not."

"Can I touch that?" He asked, a little louder. Wow! Just like talking to a brick wall.

"I'd rather you not." You kept your voice at a nice, conversational level.

"Can I touch that?" Another decibel increase on Taren's part. You winced and checked to make sure people weren't watching.

Oh, brother, some of the guards were side-eyeing you. You could see Hunter and Mathouchanh doing flips between lofty glances your way and slow conversation. "I'd rather you not."

"Can I touch that?" This quiet judgement was really doing some weathering on your resolution. When your eyes found Avery, who was muttering something to Lodge while staring you and Taren down, you sighed. 

"Okay." You bent down and picked the boy up, bringing him level with your nose and the silver tendrils framing your face. "It's just like your hair, you kn-"

In a blur, Taren was crawling over your head. "-MOTHER-" 

Prattling, the human-sized cockroach skittered it's way to the back of your neck, welding its fingers to the roots of your hair like. The sudden weight change on your cranium has you falling backwards for a straight ten seconds. 

In some twisted retaliation, Taren pulled on your hair in a flurry of directions until you were steadied.

"We are good!" Taren declared as you clawed at his sides, his deferent veneer evaporated. "I am balanced!"

"You-" you seethed. What are you supposed to do with this? What can you do, rip him off? He'll start crying and suddenly you're the bad guy. When has a child gone far enough that you're allowed to punt kick them and face light consequences? 

"Your hair is very soft," Taren commented, still yanking out tufts of your hair. Every tug was like someone had struck a match and dropped it on your scalp. "What- uh, what conditioning do you use?"

"Get off of my head!" As if to further perturb you, Taren dug his nose into your scalp.

"You smell nice," the boy declared, pounding on the misshapen bongo that was your head. "Like vanilla. And you're tall. I wish I was tall."

You proceeded to grab one of Taren's legs and pull. The action only strengthened his hold. "If you get off of me, I can put you in an even higher place. You can be even taller."

"Where?" How about into orbit? Or on top of one of the gazebos if you could get away with it. "If you're talking about a tree, I can't climb them. I'm not allowed."

You could shave your head if it came down to it. Anything to get this rodent off. "Oh, yeah? Why's that?" 

"Because I have brittle bones disease."

...Uh? A shocked laugh left you before you could limit it to your chest cavity, then immediate guilt. 

Brittle bones? Really? If that's the case, it's no laughing matter, even though how tersely he delivered such a heavy proclamation struck you as funny.

Tree climbing couldn't be the only thing Taren's forbidden to do. No sports with too much aggression or rigor, maybe in general? No high impact activities? You carefully released her leg. 

A brick regret hit you in the back of the head again, all your inner vexes nixed. "You're right, I was talking about a tree. You can stay on my head, instead. If your mom says you can't, you can't."

"Really?" Taren marveled in a minute mumble, manhandling a clump if your hair. 

"Yep." You shrugged. "Who am I to play god? Listen to your mom. She knows best."

"What about my dad?" You winced. Sure, there was the lawful good answer to that question, but it didn't sit right with you. Even though it'd be ridiculous and inappropriate to tell a child of your experiences, you'd feel like you weren't giving him the full truth he'd deserve. 

On one hand, there was the perfectly functional, family friendly dad, and yet on the other...

"Depends on the dad," you concluded the enigma, and gestures to the grandiose garden. "I'm sure yours is.." you shook your head. Shut up. "Um, neat."

Great. Maybe not the best choice of words to thwart any further questioning, but Taren and his attention span couldn't care less. "Okay. Hey, can you go over to that tree?"

You could see a tiny finger pointing someplace from your peripheral, following. "Sure."

As you neared the tree, you couldn't help but note long, stringlike foliage hanging from the tree's gnarly branches. "We're friends now, so I'm making us friendship bracelets."

"Sure," you responded, entering the cool shade of the tree and looking up into tree's biodegradable drapery. "If you mean the string-looking things, we should find different material."

"Why?" You, of course, expected Taren to start grabbing the slender strands of this mystery plant, and positioned yourself as far away from any he could try and swipe at. "It's pretty."

"Because." These finely reticulated nets of cool hues, dulled forest green and acid yellow in color, did not fool you. You've seen their dangly kind around these parts. "These are a hybrid of lace lichen and spanish moss. They could have bugs in them."

"Oh!" Taren's ogled. "They do? I speak Spanish. I could talk to them."

Uh? You shook your head. "I- what? Talk to- you're gonna talk to them?" Are seven year olds denser than what you had expected, or is Taren just really behind the pitch? "Talk to who?"

"The bugs," he elaborated. The patience in his voice was jarring. Oh, silly you. Of course. The bugs. Idiot. 

You've decided to cut the boy some slack, and edged to a piece of moss, just out of Taren's reach. "Okay, yeah. The bugs. Entirely my fault. Just don't get too close. Anything that has the chromaticity of patina concerns me."

"The chrome of what? Whose patina?"

"A greenish-brown color." 

"I'll ask Maxon." Taren, thankfully, seemed to have given up his struggle in trying to swipe at moss, slumping over your head. "He's looking for me. He knows a lot of big words, too. I learned the word apoplexy today. Do you know what it means? Let me down."

You could not think of a single circumstance where someone would need to define apoplexy to a seven year old. "What does apoplexy mean? What about our friendship bracelets?"

"I forgot, but I can find other stuff. Like shoelaces. Plus, the twins are coming this way, and I don't want to talk to them. I'm mad with them right now." 

"The twins? Hey!" You caught Taren as gently as you could when he took a swan dive off your head. "Are you insane? Hello? Brittle bones? Watch it, kid!"

"Bye!" Taren wriggled out of your delicate handling and onto the floor, scampering off into the affluent milieu—much to the adulation of the royals and Selected.

Just as Taren had warned you in his hazardous exit, as you watched his speed off in her elder cousin's direction, you felt someone kick your leg. Hard, at that. 

"Howd- eugh!" You heard a youthful voice gag. "Why do all of the Selected smell like toilet cleanser?"

"Stop kicking strangers already!" These guys were coming out of the woodwork, weren't they? "We're at a party!"

"Naphthalene isn't the worst thing to smell like," you posited, turning around. Two squabbling children of roughly the same heights buzzed about you, both in persimmon-hued sun dresses. 

While the twins were no identical, they were the same sex. Although, for having two entirely different sets of genomes, they looked astonishingly similar.

While they looked taller and older, they weren't as filled out as Taren. Besides the hair, they lacked the broader builds and darker skin found in the Station family, taking on skinny and pale complexions. Each bore icy blue eyes encompassed by thick limbal rings, the color so faint it was almost a gray. 

Maybe one of them had lighter hair? A smaller jaw? Stood a little taller, donned a softer silhouette? The only distinguishable characteristic they graced you with was a single mole on either of their faces. One was just below the corner of their left eye and the other above the tail of their eyebrow. 

Oh, and their hair. One of the girls worse her hair mid-length, pulled into two dutch braids. A rainbow lollipop in her hand would complete the look. The other's hair was only ear-length, and with not much to work with, it wasn't styled.

Before you could get another word in, the tween with the braid's eyes shot open. "Wait a minute! You're the fighter from Panama, aren't you? [F/n] [L/n]!"

Sigh. That gladiator reputation had been harder to shake than you expected. "At least you knew my name. Fought someone in such a fashion exactly once, by the way."

"Your sparring match, yes! You were absolutely brilliant! Lucena and I used to fence foil, but our mother made us stop after she almost lost an eye fooling with the blade. You know how every foil has that little button at the top?"

You wanted to ignore it, but with every mention of your commercialized, two minute fight, you felt yourself twitch. 

How were you projected on television? What did the public see? Was it only that? 

You were prohibited from interviews. With that and your behavior on the Report, you couldn't push your image in the direction you wanted. 

These girls—the Jones-Stations—were royally connected, but in the end, just civilians. They've more time to watch television than you. You could ask them. Gideon or Maxon wouldn't need to know. Just to keep you in the loop.

However, as you were concocting your sentence starter, you noticed the billows of smoke coming from Lucena's ears.

"Oh, no no no no, don't try to pin that on me again," Lucena fumed, shoving a finger in her sister's face. "You were the one messing around!"

"Water under the bridge, but that's really funny, because I wasn't," she continued effortlessly. "Anyhow, if I were any younger, I'd probably be asking you to fight me!"

"You can't get onto your moronic soapbox and claim water under the bridge if you're going to get in the last word afterwards!" 

"There's many-" you started.

"Oh, silly me!" The girl chimed, presenting her hand. "I'm Taryn. Taryn Jones-Station. This is my sister, Lucena. But you already know that, I already said her name."

Taryn's sister had been rolling her eyes for her entire introductory sequence, but it only worsened as Taryn continued to chatter. By the time Lucena was mentioned, her hands were balled into fists. In the end she simply sighed and shook her head. 

She looked to you, donning a smile of clenched teeth, like someone paused her mid-sentence. 

"Hi," she said, hugging her sides. What you'd give to see what's going through her head. Albeit tasteful, the overgrown lob cut bangs don't help for reading people.

"Like I was going to say, there's others things you could challenge me in." You rolled up an intangible sleeve. "I'm a lover of all strategy games."

"That's a shame," Taryn lamented. "I like random chance games: moksha patam, lotería, garbage.. fun, low risk, easy to play for everyone. I don't like to think too hard when I don't need to!"

You were contemplating replying when Lucena did the work for you. "Yeah, right. She's worried she'd lose and get exposed as the dumb twin," she griped. "Which she is."

"No, I'm just the likable twin," the girl inhaled, placing a hand on her sister's shoulder. Lucena smacked it off, but Taryn paid no mind. 

With the confidence of someone who intended for their hand to be batted away from the start, she pulled it to her collarbone and fiddled with a locket around her neck. The action was so smooth you almost forgot Lucena pushed it away.

"But I'm glad we found you before our brother Dario did, miss [F/n]!" Taryn exclaimed. "Bloodthirsty, that thing."

"At least mom gave me an identifiable name," Lucena barked. 

You glanced to the other twin. Taryn didn't so much as turn to her twin, only placed the previously retracted hand on her hip and checked the manicure on the other. No nerves had took damage.

"Lucena, either stop acting like a brat or shut up." If the highest orders of condescension and disappointment one could speak to you with had a child, it'd be Taryn's tone. "Being rude and offish doesn't make you look nearly as cool or as interesting as you think it does to [F/n]. To anyone, truthfully."

Vivid cerise splattered the girl's cheeks. "You-!" She reached for one of her sister's braids.

"Whoa!" You reaches forward and slapped her hands away from Taryn's hair. "No need to get catty. If you can't get over something this puerile, how do you expect to deal with each other for the rest of your lives?"

Taryn and Lucena stilled briefly, tearing their livid gazes from one another to flash you a funny look. 

"Puerile?" They pondered in perfect synchronization. At their sudden unison under flummox, an idea hatched in your head.

"Oh, puerile," you said. "As opposed to an issue of Brobdingnagian size where, ceteris paribus, such palpable dissension would be expected, this argument is anal retentive and aggrieved. And as I'd rather not be privy to your sisterly vendettas, I'd enjoy its abatement."

Taryn and Lucena were staring at you like you just spoke in fluent pig Latin. 

"...What?" Taryn asked, shuffling towards her sister. "What did you say?"

"Yeah," Lucena added. "It'd be nice if you talked like you hadn't just walked out of The Great Gatsby."

"You've read it?" Here you thought that'd be banned since it's considered a classic. "Well, the exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain! Perhaps your sister forced you to, as well?"

Lucena tensed. "I haven't- no, I haven't actually read it. Only the first chapter. But you're still talking overly frivolously."

Noted. "Apologies—I've been informed have a penchant to deluge one with farcical verbosity. I'd speak in layman's terms, but my reserve would atrophy if I left it to collect dust."

"Naturally," Taryn replied.

"It's a veritable addition to wit! I hope to bequeath it to the youth, but they seem caught up with Illéa's culturally mandated neologisms. I try to eschew using sayings tied to certain times, no matter how inexorable; lest I become an anachronism miser."

Watching Taryn slowly link arms with Lucena again as you rambled was a relief. "Aha, should we be writing this down?"

Lucena put a hand on her sister's shoulder. "I'm keeping a running list of words I don't know in my head."

"Allow me to dispel your suspicion," you assured them, clasping your hands together. "Although I am rhadamanthine in that-"

"YOU!" You heard blare in the distance, somewhere behind you. On key, Taryn and Lucena winced. 

"That's Dario," the former expressed, a concern-rousing sympathy etched into her words. "I'm sorry. You're kind of identifiable, with the hair and all."

"I understand." You nodded, the sound of Bermuda grass crunching coupled with the ghost of a stomp growing ever nearer. "Should I move out of the way?"

"Probably," Lucena admitted. "He's like Taren, but more aggressive than blunt."

"When?"

Taryn raised a finger, lips parted ever so slightly. "Mm.. now."

You made a quick side step, and an unknown body rammed into Taryn and Lucena like they were the last two children in a line of red rover. The two had braced beforehand, so the sticklike mass folded upon impact.

"Dario-!" Taryn wheezed. Dario, though, had already bounced back, facing you. 

The boy had wide, cinnamon-colored eyes, dark skin, and a head of hickory curls. That was all you could see, as he was too close to your face to see anything else. You swore, either he was at a humbling height for his age or he was wearing pointe shoes.

"Fight me!" He proceeded to bellow, and his voice matched his presence. His high-pitched demand pierced the sweet zephyr of the reception, making you and his sisters cringe. "Fight me!"

You could feel more stares from the guards. He was drawing way too much attention for your liking. 

"Shhh, shhh," you tried to coo, ripping him off of you. "Shut up, shut up, shut up. Hey, buddy, kid, l'enfant terrible, whatever? Shut up."

"Write that down." Taryn elbowed Lucena. 

Though you had torn Dario off, the brunet wasn't giving up. "What, you scared?" He mocked, reaching for your waist. "Come on!"

"You wanna fight, huh?" You squatted down to his eye level, still keeping him at an arm's length by his forehead. "Warm up, then. The guards warm up before they fight me."

Dario's physical bombarding came to a screeching halt. He paused pushing against your palm to pout, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Warm up? That's useless."

Instinctively, you reached for your own pockets. You had none on your dress. "You really wanna die on that hill? Because I could lecture you for hours on why it's not."

"Well, I don't want to. You're just trying to buy time for yourself."

"That's funny, I don't remember asking what you wanted to do," you marveled. "All of the guards warm up before they fight me."

"But I am! I'm not a guard!"

You stood back up and played with the hair tucked behind your ear. "Sucks for you. We don't hold individualism close to our hearts over here. Nor does fighting care for the individual." You shook your head. "Have you forgot you're the one asking something of me? This isn't negotiable."

Taryn and Lucena glanced to Dario, who went beet red upon making eye contact. 

"Fine!" He threw his hands into the air, making sure to emphasize the sound of them hitting his sides. "What do you want me to do?"

You nodded to the base of the winding willow. "Run around the tree until I say stop."

"This is so stupid," he whined, glaring at the speckled trunk and then down to his heather coat. "I'm wearing a suit."

"Is it an adhesive suit?" You frowned. "Because if it isn't, I'm quite certain you can, you know, take it off. Now quit stalling and start running."

With a wooden expression, Dario shrugged off his top layer and flung it over to you, alongside a half-hearted warning. "Fine, but hold my suit. Don't fold it, either. It creases easily."

"Fine." Given a satisfactory answer, Adrian dragged himself over to the center of the tree and commenced a light jog.

Lucena meandered to your side, rubbing an arm. "If you're trying to tire him out, it's not gonna work. His stamina is incredible."

"She's right," Taryn eclipsed, tossing an arm over her sister's shoulder. "You'd really need to put him through the wringer if you wanted to get out of.. battling him with sticks or something."

"I'll figure something out." You draped the jacket over your arm, admiring its puce gleam.

"You're making my little brother do laps around a tree why?" You felt a sporadic, fourth presence graze your back; its cheerless voice tore through any lightheartedness in the air.

All of this to which Taryn sighed. "Leave her alone, A. Dario wouldn't have stopped screaming if she didn't."

"I'm more worried with why he was screaming." You craned your neck for a better look of whoever was behind you. 

Two large, doe-like, navy blue eyes were staring you down. Matching their sturdiness was the face of a tannish teenager with dirty blonde hair that cascaded down to her chin, her thin lips cemented in a disdainful frown.

"Move." "A" pushed through you and Taryn with the brush of a broad shoulder. 

You would've been arguably intimidated if the girl hadn't been dressed like a Victorian doll. Constricting her strides was a powder blue cage of lace piping and silk frill.

"He's always screaming!" Taryn derided. Provided with no response, she stomped a foot on the ground and grimaced. "Aewyl- ow!"

"Nice," Lucena remarked as Taryn lifted up her foot, which was encased in a baby pink pump. This short cry, however, was enough to make who you now presumed to be Aewlyd turn back around.

Odd, you thought, but not for long. "Shut up, Lucy," Taryn growled, massaging her ankle. "Seriously."

"What the heck? I was just making a joke."

"That's what you always say. It's never a joke until someone gets offended with you, so now I can't take a joke. It's exhausting."

You could sense the tension rising, and tried to implement confusion again. "Just like Schrödinger!"

"Oh, so I'm exhausting?" Before you could try another approach, Aewlyd glided past you. "Are you serious? What's wrong with-?"

"Not here," the eldest child proclaimed out of the blue, slapping her hand atop either of their heads and shaking either of them like bobble heads. "Okay?"

Like kittens picked up by the napes of their necks, Lucena and Taryn were pacified. Any trace of their soon-to-be argument has dropped from their mouths, in replacement by attempts to pry Aewlyd's fingers off their scalps. In the moment, you felt a pang of remorse for your own sister. 

If you were anywhere near as difficult as Taryn and Lucena, at least there was only one of you. Then again, some of the stragglers that would temporarily join your misadventures were in need of behavioral management, too.

After Taryn and Lucena at last barked their "fine"s and "let me go"s sufficiently, Aewlyd released the crowns of their heads. 

Then her dark eyes met yours. And while you're undoubtedly older than she, the feeling of anxiety a misbehaved child experiences when confronted by their childminder spread like a gangrene in your chest. 

The stony glare of scrutiny was all too familiar. "[F/n], right?" She asked, looking you up and down.

You never really partook in being sized up by a kid—typically you were the kid sizing someone up—and it wasn't fun. "I-"

Something collided with your hip. You looked down, and Dario was dancing and pushing around your leg. It looked like he was trying to sway you, but you weren't too sure. The only definitive thing to you was that, given his tight frown, this was meant to be retribution. 

"Hell-o! You forgot about me!" He yodeled, banging on your kneecap like he was playing the snare drum. "I'm not letting this go, you know! You better come up with something else for me to do or man up!"

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying your damned best to avoid eye contact with Aewlyd. "Okay, um- do you think you could let go of me first?"

"Can't you march in place or something?" Aewlyd sneered.

"I'm taking orders from [F/n], not you!" Dario stuck to your leg like a leech. "Anything else, [F/n], or ma'am?"

This was putting some real strain on your fibula right now. "No, no, she's onto something. Try marching in place for awhile."

The brunet's ogling fizzled away, and you were left with a cold, crestfallen stare. Unclamping himself from your leg with an incoherent murmur, Dario waddled over to where Aewlyd stood and commenced a stiff march.

"So, what, he won't leave you alone?" Aewlyd posed. When you nodded, she rolled her eyes. "Typical. Okay, I guess I could see why you'd have him running around."

"Taryn and Lucena told me I'd have to try harder before, but it should be easy." Whenever Dario finished around ten steps, he'd give you the stink eye. "His head is still, like, 30% of his total body weight. A push-up or two and he's good."

"I would not be good!" Dario countered, voice shrill. Aewlyd flicked him. 

"Quiet," she hushed. Questionable disciplining, but you wouldn't read too much into it; you were in no way a doctor of philosophy in learning. "The big kids are talking. It's Aewlyd, by the way."

"I figured." You nodded to Taryn and Lucena, who were off tamely bickering in the sidelines. At least they were keeping themselves in check. 

"Sorry about this blockhead." Aewlyd gestured you Dario, who was every shade of red by now. "He lacks the self-awareness to know how obnoxious he is. He nearly broke his Majesty's camera earlier trying to pull his attention away from some chick."

"Huh," you said. Dario's mouth opened and closed in the same tempo as a pendulum—swinging between wanting to defend his honor and knowing the consequences of doing so. "That's a little worrying."

"You think?" Aewlyd's voice perked, albeit only in her bout of sarcasm. She massaged her brows. "Anyway, I'll take him off your hands after this whole warm-up bit. Don't worry."

"N-" Aewlyd flashed Dario an icy glare, and he shriveled. 

The dirty blonde's attention reverted back to you, and she offered her hand and a half-smile. "Nice to meet you." 

As you went to shake it, a bracelet donning her wrist you hadn't noticed before caught your eye. A pattern of red, black, and gold rhinestones that you knew all too well. 

You flipped her hand over. Three of the beads underneath were snow white, each with a plain number inscribed: 509. As soon as you'd read them, Aewlyd jerked her hand away.

You covered your mouth in cheap startle while Aewlyd wrung her hands. "You listen to Caracalla?"

Aewlyd looked to you, eyes narrowed as she massaged her wrist. "You noticed?"

"No merchandise from that band could be too innocuous and generic enough for me to glaze over it." You could feel yourself starting to smile. "But you? Someone so close to the royal family, listening to his music? The more you know."

"They may be radicals, but I like their sound," she defended, crossing her arms. "Are you really a fan? Or have you just, you know, heard of him?"

Oh, boy. This? You matched her fierce posture, minus the inward turned feet. "I'd say I'm one of his older fans. Why, don't trust it?"

In the blink of an eye, you were being interrogated. "They're pretty underground. What's his full name?"

"Abel Windsor."

"When's his birthday?"

This poor girl really didn't know who she was messing with. "He doesn't know, but he chose April 21st when he turned sixteen."

"Which song of his was banned temporarily?"

"I'm assuming that's a trick question. His entire album, Superbus."

"What other names was he considering before he settled on Caracalla?"

"Zee-lot, spelt like zealot, and Nibiru."

"What's his blood type?"

"A negative. You relent yet?"

"Where did he write his first song?"

You remembered that. "Ugh, hitchhiking to Waverly. Wrote it on his arm. He'd play it every night at this no-name bar for the longest time."

Aewlyd was becoming more and more perturbed by the second. "Who's his favorite song dedicated to?"

You hands fluttered over your chest. "To his girlfriend's little sister, of course! Isn't it weird to think she'd be around our age by now?"

The girl relaxed for a quick second. "Yeah. I've immortalized her as a sassy preteen in my head, but I guess she would be about eighteen or nineteen by now."

"I'd bet nineteen," you estimated.

"I dunno, maybe." Aewlyd's shoulders sagged, thoroughly defeated. "I guess you really are a fan. What's your favorite song, then?"

"I know he's more of a poppy, alternative rock type now, but his earlier eras in jazz and swing has a special place in my heart. It's nostalgic for me, I guess."

"Ha." Now that your trial was out of the way, Aewlyd's voice grew warmer; a pleased smile was beginning to bud across her lips. "That was so lame."

"It was, yeah. What can I say? I like experimental stuff." Dario began to huff and puff again, and Aewlyd groaned. "It's fine, it's fine. Hey, Dario, have you heard of an Aztec push-up?"

Dario stopped, one of his legs frozen mid-air. "No?"

*

"One more, one more," Aewlyd urged between her gasps, hurriedly reorienting her phone. "Ha- one more, pretty please? I need to get this for mom." 

"This SUCKS!" Dario spat, lying in a child's pose in the grass. 

As soon as you'd taught him the proper technique for several push-up and plank variations, The kid had been teetering between cognizance and outright passing out. Cadmium red painted his face as though someone dumped a paint can over his head, and every breath he took rocked his body.

Yet, despite his stupor, Dario attempted one more jump. And fell flat on his face. Aewlyd, Lucena, and Taren (who'd shown up again with all of Dario's grieving) all cracked up.

"Very, very nice!" You extolled, hoping your clapping would break up the  
guffaws of his siblings.

"MY ARMS!" He shrieked. Aewlyd doubled over. "OW!"

Taryn seemed more apprehensive of the debacle. "Don't you think you overexerted him a little?" She squeaked. 

Lucena hit her on the shoulder. "Oh, lighten up. It's hilarious! God, what a nimrod."

"[F/n]," Dario sputtered. "Why don't you do some of these exercises, huh? Why am I doing this alone?"

The remainder of the Jones-Station family oohed you as though you were a child being sent to the principal's office. "Why I- because I'm wearing a dress! How uncouth would that be?"

"The nerve, Dario," Lucena tutted. "The nerve."

"Can you even do a push-up?" He challenged, though given how out of breath he was, the suggestion didn't sound as inviting. "I bet you couldn't do as many as I did just now."

This kid did, what, four regular push-ups correctly? Please. "I appreciate you trying to besmirch me in front of the guard, but I could push-up circles around you, dude."

Good news was, the workout had worked mental wonders for Dario. Sparring you had been wiped from his simple mind. The boy had been reduced to a puddle of sweat on the ground you were trying to console.

"Come on, the flagellation part is over," you encouraged. "Don't you feel the runner's high? All of your pain and exhaustion canalizing into endorphins?"

"No!" He coughed, struggling to sit up.

"Thou shalt not lie. You're totally euphoric right now."

Dario was not well-receiving of your postulations. The sharp lift of his right foot as you knelt down beside him would suggest he tried to kick you if not for his worn out his legs were. "I'm not!"

"I digress. But hey, you've been such a good sport, and if you're still up to it, I'm willing to give you carte blanche for whenever I see you again. Then we can properly fight."

Dario rolled over. "I don't know what that means!"

"Like an IOU, you know? But you have to promise to stop pilfering Maxon's things. Petty theft is a gateway to kleptomania." 

"You aren't making this any easier for him," Aewlyd mentioned, coming to your side with Taren in her hands. "Is it okay with you if I put Taren on your shoulder? Or something? He's been whining for the past five minutes."

"Sure," you said, and felt a newfound weight on your back. "Matter of fact, put anybody ten and under on my shoulders. I'll be the muscle of the Jones-Station children."

"Dang!" Dario hissed as Taryn and Lucena encircled him.

"Wh-" Aewlyd shook her head. "What do you mean, dang? Don't say dang, we all know what word you really mean."

"I'm too old," Dario ululated, grabbing onto Lucena's hand and pulling himself up. He turned to you. "If you weren't getting married, ma'am, I'd ask you to wait for me."

Lucena dropped him the second before he could regain his footing.

A very, very, very, almost tangibly awkward silence swept over the tiny group you'd formed. One word was written across everyone's faces, though nobody dared say it.

"..What?" You finally asked. 

"I'm so sorry," Taryn broke, rushing over to you. "He didn't mean that. He's a dumb bloke. Please don't listen to him."

"Dario," Lucena covered her eyes. "You're, like, eleven."

"Going on twelve," he added, as if it would make any difference for the subject at hand. "But that doesn't matter. Age is just a number."

That last statement brought about another wave of grimaces and uproars from you and his other four siblings. Even Taren was squeezing your shoulder, babbling about something you couldn't discern.

"Da-" Aewlyd began to yell, froze, looked around and back to Dario, and her tone dropped to a whisper shout. "Dario!"

Lucena backed away, hands raised. "Dude!"

"Dario," Taryn snapped. "Do yourself a favor and shut up!"

"Look, you got Taryn to raise her voice!" Lucena pointed to her twin. "Taryn never raises her voice at anyone other than me! You effed up!"

"Language!" Aewlyd barked. 

During the commotion, all Dario was focused on was getting up, and it wasn't working well for him. He stumbled to his feet, his disorientation growing by the minute with all of the opposition encompassing him, and as if pushed down again, fell.

You, in all of your divine wisdom as the only legal adult of the gang, could only focus on one, debatably negligible aspect of Dario's words.

"Who says I'm getting married?" You demanded, your pitch coming out higher than you expected. 

Fortunately, it appeared only Aewlyd had heard. The girl shot you a discomfortingly amazed look. "Uh-"

"Me or Maxon, your pick," Dario continued, finally standing upright and dusting himself off. At that, Aewlyd's expression of incredulity shifted to the boy.

Without a word, for you feared her wrath would be redirected once more, you returned Dario's jacket to him. You could see why this girl's younger siblings would go to longer than average lengths to stop her from going off the rails. One glance from her and you felt humiliated.

"What is wrong with you?" She sounded almost astonished. "And stop calling him Maxon! He's your Majesty to all of us!"

"Wait, he is?" You queried above the clamor. "But isn't he your cousin?"

Having subdued Aewlyd, the ringleader, in conversation, the rest of the circus started to fall in line. The monkeys all began to quiet down, looking up at their unprepared chief for her reply. 

For a moment, it looked like she was about to start rambling like Taren would. "We- we are, but it's not.. appropriate."

Aewlyd inhaled, and from them on her voice had the inflection of a busted recorder you hit play on. 

"We might be relatives, but from the queen's side. We've no royal blood. That makes us no different from the rest of the populace. We shouldn't address the king's heir so informally. They'll learn that eventually."

All ready simmered concerns about Dario were extinguished with Aewlyd's crestfallen explanation. 

You played with the taste of each word in your mouth, and how flatly it left Aewlyd's. It didn't sound like her own, even her first reciting. They shouldn't address the king's heir so informally...

You folded your arms to your chest. "And who taught you that doggerel?"

Aewlyd turned to you, rubbing her neck. "Doggerel?" 

"Don't worry about it. You're the closest thing to age peers "his Majesty" has that he can interact with, no strings attached. I'm sure he'd much prefer you speak to him casually. Ecstatic, even."

Blood orange doused Aewlyd's cheeks. "Oh."

"Ahem," someone hummed from behind you. You jumped a good two feet into the air, causing Taren to roll off of your shoulder and into Dario's hands. 

Taryn squeaked, carnation pink creeping up the tips of her ears, and she skittered behind Lucena. "Y- M-"

You whirled around, and Maxon stood there, holding the hand of who you assumed to be his final cousin, Adrian. Eerily close to you for you not noticing.

"Hello." He waved to you all, smile softly. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop. But she's right. 

"Aewyld." The girl stiffened. "You used to give me the most outlandish nicknames when we were small. I don't know what invoked you to stop, but-"

"Maxon," Dario interrupted. "What does doggerel mean?"

The prince blinked. "Sorry?"

God. "Oh, right," Lucena said. "What about Brobdingnagian?"

Slowly, Aewyld slunk away as Maxon was consumed my words demanding definitions and parts of speeches. You followed her, frowning.

"Hey, I'm sorry," you softly spoke as she placed herself on the outskirts of the mob. "I didn't mean to embarrass you or anything like that."

Aewyld shook her head, rubbing an eye. "No, it's not that. I'm grateful, I just.. it'll take awhile to readjust, I guess. To the whole Maxon thing."

Two voices, climbing in amplitude, stood out against Maxon's many interviews. You and Aewyld sighed to see that they belonged to Lucena and Taryn, squawking at each other for what felt like the fifth time since you met them. 

"You look more drained than I do." Aewyld nudged you. You chuckled bitterly.

"Now that I'm thinking about it." You tried to spot Leger or Avery in the thread of soldiers woven into the background of the reception. "They remind me of these two guards I know. Always at each other's throats. I can't get them to get along for the life of me."

“Are they here?” 

“Don’t think so. They’re new, doubt they’d be posted outside yet.”

"Hey, you figured it out with Taryn and Lucy. Boys are easier," the dirty blonde explained. "The trick is to pit them against something they don't know what to do with. Then they'll be forced to cooperate."

"What's there I can make them do that they're unfamiliar with?" You presses your forehead into the palm of your hand. "Close to nothing."

"Think outside the box. Does it need to be with exercising or dueling?" She probed. "Maybe you could give them some arts and crafts. I have a book of small scenes I make those two act out whenever they're mad at each other. The longer the activity the better."

You snickered. "Okay, that's kinda funny."

"And it works." Once again, Aewlyd was starting to shuffle towards her siblings and one overjoyed cousin. "Anyway, I think I should suck it up and, you know, socialize. I owe it to Hi- Maxon, caught myself, to try and converse."

"Don't hurt yourself," you cautioned. Aewyld sneered and flicked you.


	19. Cognomen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eurasian Republic’s arrival nears.

So maybe you were too quick to judge; the reception's not horrid. 

After Maxon entered the scene with his cousins, you decided that it'd be better to leave the septet alone. Let them catch up on some urgently needed bonding with one another.

Sure, you were back at square one. Smuggling petit fours for guards, bouncing ideas off Markson, feeling bad about Kriss and Natalie, etc., but at least you'd done something.

But this wasn't the warm welcome you were waiting for. 

Your eyes deconstructed every nauseatingly large palanquin once more and sighed. How were you expected to tell the time, a sundial? The Eurasian Republic could be arriving within the hour, and you were to be a dealer when they did. 

You needed a drink, you thought as you took a sip of your tea. No, not a lukewarm panama esmerelda geisha. An alcoholic drink.. a white Russian or something.

Hold on. You frowned into your cup, nails scraping the blue china. Since when do you actually want a cocktail? Were all of those death in the afternoons you'd force down your throat in the lounge finally getting to you? 

You weren't having it. From now on you'll be restricting yourself to Irish coffees, maybe a strawberry daiquiri if the situation is that horrific.

After the Selected and extended royal family filed out, you and a handful of government elites were prepped to traverse back inside, downstairs, and into the ground floor's grand hall.

"-Most historians agree on the latter. Anyways, like every letter in the proto-sinaitic script, wāw makes the first sound in its name, which is "w,"" Gideon droned along the way, sipping conservatively on a cup of jungle juice. 

"Sure," you inserted perfunctorily. Honestly, if you weren't so stressed, you'd probably be as entranced with whatever trivia Gideon was spouting off as he was. But you were antsy, hence the drinks.

You took another swig of overpriced leaf water, and an unforeseen onslaught of topor kicked you in the gut so hard you checked to make sure you hadn't been drinking melatonin-infused chamomile for the past ten minutes. You were not.

"So the Phoenicians, they-" You bit your lip. By the time the majority of the Selected had migrated inside, your hopelessly opportunistic conscious refused to get out of earshot of the Swendish family. You should've followed suit.

But you were always one step behind, so it seems. Now, as you directed food and ushers where to put what, and the banquet's skylight dropped from baby blue to marigold, there was nothing you could but cry over the milk you'd spilt.

No matter what King Clarkson says, chatting with them was... you know, all of the cameras, all of the expectant stares.

Huh. Is this what conditioning feels like? Only when you were given permission to step back did you even collect yourself enough to notice.

Was that methodology expected not only for a demure, submissive, queenly lifestyle, but for all female staff? How little you'd see women in the palace doing anything other than trailing behind a superior worried you. If so, you'd have to-

"[F/n]," you heard someone mutter. Glancing to your right, you saw Maxon approaching you and Gideon, smiling. "Dario still wants to duel you."

If you were any less composed, you would've cackled. Instead, you crossed your arms and cracked an equally witchy grin. "Forgive me, I didn't want to impede on the family fun. Or the quiet of the venue."

"Your Majesty." As Gideon spoke, a maid came by with a platter of empty, stemless glasses, which he put his drink on. "God, why am I drinking? I'm fine. Fine!"

You exchanged a look with Maxon. He leaned in, holding a hand to the side of his mouth, but spoke at normal voice level nevertheless. 

"He's worried about his Russian," he elucidated. "According to him, it's middling."

"Compared to my fluency in other languages, yes." Gideon was quick to retort. 

"Come, now, you're being too hard on yourself."

"I need to-!" Gideon put his two hands in between him and Maxon, fingers curled and twitching as if he were crushing something between the two. "Sofya the Eager understands only a superbly specific dialect and I don't want to offend her!"

"I'm sure they'll be tickled pink you so much as know how to say hello!" The prince, undeterred, chirped on. 

"I'm not sure about that," you confessed. "I believe they set higher standards for lingual pundits." 

"Maxon." Gideon looked like he'd rather have his drink back on him. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten that when I say Sofia the Eager "understands" a certain dialect, I mean lip reads?" 

Maxon froze. "Ah?"

"She's deaf, my lord." You weren't sure if Gideon was addressing Maxon or praying. "We were briefed of this. She lost her hearing from some kind of sickness years before marrying Pyotr, and as expected of anyone not born deaf, she's had difficulty adjusting."

Maxon turned to you. Expectantly. "Did you know about that?"

"What, so I'm the intel on all international news now?" You fumed. But your fury was short-lived—he had a point. You were stuffed with useless trivia. "No, I didn't know."

"And Russian is a very difficult language to lip read," Gideon stammered. "There's vowel reductions and sound stress and long words and tons of consonants, and I would sign RSL, but it's reportedly embarrassing for her. I'll stepping on eggshells her whole stay."

Maxon was still looking at you like you could do something about this. "Perhaps there's some mutually intelligible Slavic language she knows you could speak instead?" He suggested.

"I don't think so," he sighed. "I can only hope the king doesn't maim me."

"Call me indolent." You threw up your hands. "But if you're so sure about the outcome of this, gathering ye roses while ye may would be my stratagem. Either do something or stop moping around."

"You say that like I'm being fatalistic without due reason," the translator moaned, voice starting to slur. "This.. was inevitable."

"Oh, dear," Maxon chuckled, despair clouding his eyes. "A bit buzzed, are we? Here, have my water."

"The fault, dear Gideon, is not in our stars." You twisted a lock of hair as Maxon helped Gideon relearn swallowing. "Last time I checked, Nostradamus didn't predict you'd get plastered at four-something in the afternoon."

Maxon eyed you, his ever-present smile quirking. "I take it you don't much appreciate determinism? Surprising."

You raised a brow. "What's so surprising about me wanting to think I have free will?"

"I don't know, it seemed more... realistic to me?" Maxon adjusted his collar with a shrug. "I suppose I thought those shades of nihilism fit your brand more."

"Hm, elaborate. What's my brand?" You contested. Maxon chuckled and moved to scruff up his hair.

"Oh, you know." He rolled a wrist. "Rebellious, cynical, cute, sparingly pessimistic. Anything synonymous to the aforementioned could similarly be ratified."

One of those descriptors mentioned was very, very out of place. "What was the second to last one?"

"Sparingly?" You rolled your eyes.

"Hilarious," you bit back, fighting off the heat rising to your cheeks. "Name one cute thing about me."

"Your vocabulary. Ceteris paribus? Gather ye rosebuds while ye may? Awh, after my own heart."

Seconds before your inevitably witty remark, the prince stopped himself. "Actually, scratch that. That's hot."

You couldn't say you've experienced acid reflux before, but Maxon's self correction definitely sent something back up your esophagus. The shock hit you like a crowbar or baseball bat to the back.

"That was uncalled for," Gideon reprimanded. Thank god he did, you needed to focus on breathing. "And your first example wasn't even a word. It was a line of poetry."

"Poetry?" Maxon repeated while you massaged your tightened chest. "[F/n] doesn't read poetry. She's too rigid and literal."

"I don't see you reading anymore Shakespeare than she. Doesn't mean neither of you can say you're going to hit the hay."

By the looks of it, the mere mention of the Shakespearean saying took twenty years off Maxon's life. You'd calmed your body down enough to see the light leave his eyes.

"Well, my reference-to-ancient-theatre meter for today has been filled," he sighed, scratching his nose. "I request that, from now on, nobody cite the late Bard of Avon. Or Molière, or Lope de Vega, or Aristophanes, or any other dead playwrights you can think of."

That brazen claim successfully pulled you out of your flustered dissociation. "What?"

"He was force fed their plays as a child," Gideon explained. Maxon groaned.

"My studies have bore into me that all great works are bursting at the seams with figurative language, requiring essays worth of analysis to fully grasp. I can't pick up anything worth reading without getting a headache dissecting the word choice."

How about that. "Can I name dead poets?" You tested. 

Maxon shot you a distrustful glare. "You're on thin ice." 

Gideon snickered sadly. "I wish I hadn't relinquished my drink."

"Austen, Balzac, Blake, Bronte, Byron, Chateaubriand, Coleridge, Dickens, Flaubert, Frost, Goethe, Hardy, Hegel, Herder, Herrick, Hugo, Ibsen, Joyce, Keats, Mann, Poe, Proust, Pushkin, Sade, Schiller, Scott, Shaw, Shelley, Stendhal, Thackeray, Tolstoy, Wilde, Woolf, Wordsworth, Zola."

Maxon yawned. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. I'm sure you've read mountains of poetry. Side note, for an alleged cosmopolite, that manifest was unsettlingly eurocentric."

"My mistake." You raised a solemn hand. "Give me any region and a number."

"East Asia. Five."

"Kunikida, Miyazawa, Nakahara, Ōgai, Tachihara, Yosano."

"Afraid you're still missing names starting with the letters E, L, Q, R, U, V, and X," he said. "That's a solid C on any reasonable scale."

"That's-" Gideon stared at the floor. "That's more people than languages I feel at ease speaking academically."

"Really?" You turned to Gideon, an unmasked incredulity in your voice and on your face. "How many languages do you feel at ease speaking academically?"

He stared at his fingers, then your own. "Uh.. 78," he mumbled.

Maxon snorted, commendably putting up a show of restraint however brief, and then started to snicker. If you could, you'd string him up by his tie.

"Why would you ever let him drink if you knew he'd end up in this state?" You asked.

"Because it's the only time he ever lets loose." With the eager glint in Maxon's eyes, you were sure that wasn't the only reason. "Right. Do you think you could name them? The languages you feel at ease speaking academically?"

"Alphabetically or by priority?"

"Maxon!"

"Alphabetically. What?"

"Uh, Afrikaans, Akkadian, Albanian, Arabic, Aramaic-"

"Gideon, stop." Your eyes darted about for any server in sight. Besides Maxon, who was having the time of his life, nobody seemed to pay much mind. "Could we have some water over here? Please?"

"Aw, he'll be fine." Maxon patted your back. "I won't let our translator get inebriated past the point of no return."

"For someone you told me you considered your babysitter during one of first interactions, you seem to be quite ataraxic around him."

The prince cachinnated. "You mean making him drunk?

"But yes. You could say our relationship has been changing." Maxon's laughter faded, replaced with a warm smile. "It's not like there's been any shift in power, but since I've looked past my insecurities about inheriting the throne and all, I found he's actually not bad. I've been confiding in him as of late."

You nodded. "If there was anyone who you could talk to about your father and heir-related stress, it'd be Gideon. I'm glad you're realizing how relatable your scenarios are."

A look of bewilderment spread across the blond's face. "Sorry?"

"As in," you began. "You're both young men, working in an egregiously clique-y environment, whose coworkers are out to prove your lack of worth."

"You could look at it that way."

"He's sure to understand whatever problems you come to him bearing," you finished as Gideon persuaded a waitress to give him another goblet of definitely not wine. "Lord help us."

"He's a grown man, we can't mollycoddle him," Maxon consoled. "All my problems besides my cadre of women, you mean?"

"Your "cadre of women?"" You echoed, taking a step away from the prince. The words left a sour taste on your tongue. "I don't like the way that sounds."

"What, like "the Selected" strips them any less of individuality?" He kvetched, side-stepping to you.

"At least the connotation isn't as lascivious." 

Watching Maxon effectively close the distance you'd made between you brought to your attention to something. An out of place clothing item around his neck he was wearing in a manner close to a choker. A small, floral ascot tie.

You wanted to vomit, but kept your voice as cold and flat as you could. "What are you wearing?"

An alarmingly cheeky grin formed on Maxon's face. He rocked onto his back foot ever so slightly, adjusting his cuffs. "Have I misunderstood the kind of mood you're in?"

Just like that, your face had been lit on fire. By the time you were finished gaping like a goldfish (only a second or two), Maxon was already guarding his upper body, cackling.

Yet you blindly went in to slap him on the upper arm. "Maxon Schreave, I don't think I've ever heard you sound more like a teenage boy!"

He deflected with a squeal strikingly similar to a piglet's, which added to the alarms his behavior was setting off. "Fabulous! I am a teenage boy!"

"How would that even make any sense? You're right in front of me!"

"Are you claiming teenage boys are sensible?" His voice switched into a critic-like intonation. All the more reason to knock him around.

"Argh!" You has planted both of your arms firmly on his side, placing all of your strength onto pushing him and his quintessential posture away. "Stop!" 

"Oh, the poundage," Maxon observed, not moving an inch. "The force. So this is the superhuman power of the royal guards' figurehead. How humbling. I see why Captain Markson talks so highly of you."

"Shut it!" 

Maxon saw your aim to knock him over, dug his heels into the ground and raised you all of his weight. Akin to a tower of boxes toppling over, Maxon arched over you in a rainbow-esque bend and dropped all of his weight into you.

"Thank god for the Selection catching you," he continued above your regretful squeak. "A diamond in the rough. I don't know where the rexducere would be. The crown is forever indebted to whatever divine force that brought you here."

"Maxon-Maxon-Maxon-Maxon-Maxon-Maxon-Maxon!" You strained. "You're going to crush me!"

"I'm going to-? Nearly thrice you've picked me up before! Like a newborn baby!"

"I wasn't in heels this high! Nor was it this angle of approach!"

"Oh, fine," he grumbled, straightening himself. "Excuses, but fine. You only experience sudden bursts of brawn rivaling mammoths when books or injuries are involved. I understand." 

"I knew you'd get it," you wheezed, propping a hand on your knee as you eased air in and out of your lungs. "You're a doll."

"I assume you don't want me injuring myself, but I can get more books for you," he offered. "Is there anything you couldn't find in the library? I'll find it. Anything, so long that I can feel your warm embrace again."

You patted your cheeks. Stop it, he was joking around. "Yeah, okay, Casanova. But really, what chain of events lead to you deciding to wear that- that thing outside?"

"I fell out of my bed and hit my head." Maxon pouted, rubbing his supposedly aching sides. "You gifted it to me, can I not wear it? I think it's rather pretty."

You took one more, good look at the cravat, just to ensure you and Maxon were looking at the same thing. 

It was still the same morbid patterns of roses and dahlias that looked stitched up by an elementary schooler with no thumbs. The one whose brazenly unfinished detail work you had abandoned and tossed into the bottom of your patchwork drawer.

"Step back." You slammed a hand onto your mouth. "I think I'm gonna vomit."

"Oh, stop being so dramatic!" Maxon caressed his neck. "You're insulting my present, you know. It's good for your first try."

"That wasn't my first try," you corrected. Maxon stopped. You stared at each other for awhile, in silent conversation.

"..You know what I like?" He started. You sighed. "About it? Because it's great. It is. Wonderful, even. Do you? I, for one, particularly am fond of the embroidery. It's splendid, I find it."

You jumped up, scurrying back over to Maxon. "Wh- it's an eyesore!"

"Uh-"

You poked at the flowers. "For one thing, there's two entirely different techniques going on that mix as well as water and oil. I couldn't make up my damn mind and retreated into my childhood abulia, apparently.

"You're wearing it wrong, too." You pinched either side of the tie, circumnavigating it around Maxon's neck. "The dahlias are supposed to be in front. See how they're fading into the roses? Emphasis by form."

"Yes, yes, the elements and principles of art and design." Maxon batted your hands away, shielding his neck from more tinkering. "Forgive me, I didn't notice."

His wafer thin grin didn't sit well with you, but you backed off. 

"Dear god, this is hard to watch." Your eyes flickered to the face attached to the complaint. 

As expected, Gideon was back. The translator had another glass of wine in hand, and was looking you and Maxon up and down in undoubtedly some degree of disappointment. 

"Like, a day ago." He glanced to you and waved a finger at Maxon. "A day ago you were talking about letting this blow over. Now look at you."

You held your breath, but your chattering teeth forced you to suck in air anyway. "W- wha- what are you talking about?"

"I-" Maxon stammered with the inflection of a schoolchild with their hand raised. Given how little time it's been since the two formally befriended one another, it seemed the harsher tone was unusual to him. "I-"

"Maxon, close your mouth." Coming from Gideon, that was lethal. The prince shrank. "I've seen a satisfactory amount of verbal-"

A frazzled butler grabbed Gideon from behind. "Sir Friedman, the Eurasian Republic has arrived at the main entrance."

"Heavens, they're early." Gideon looked like he was about to cry into his cup. "I haven't had enough to drink yet."

"You're serious?" You asked, aghast.

"Do you think that little of me?" Gideon's gaze slid over you upon your exclamation. "I'm readying myself. Russian sounds more comprehensible the more you slur."

With that, he handed Maxon his glass of wine and gave him a decadent salute. "I'll hopefully see the two of you in half an hour. Good luck with the remainder of the.. work."

Watching the butler escort the man out of the room tied the same knot in your stomach you'd get watching a train barrel towards someone tied to the tracks.

"That'll be fun to recount to him in the morning." Maxon elbowed you.

You felt queasy. "Is he really about to greet the oligarch of a state as big as the Republic in that condition?"

"I wouldn't worry," Maxon reassured you. "Gideon's reasoning may not be at it's prime under pressure, but he doesn't outright crack."

"But- but-" you gestured to the half-empty glass Gideon has left in Maxon's company. "Alcohol? Knowingly impairing your cognitive capability in the presence of authority?"

Maxon shrugged. "We're not much better. You use big words, I jump around. he has a drink. Each makes us look like our mental processes have been disrupted."

You pulled your hair. The mere thought of looking like a fool in front of anyone in a powerful position made your skin crawl. "Does it?"

"It does. [F/n]." Maxon raised Gideon's past glass, a soft smile on his lips. "But don’t worry. These kinds of things are commonplace with new kingdoms emerging. You'll get used to it, and until then, they’ll simply find your nervous antics endearing.”

Your nerves were diluted, but not without substitution by a sensation just as intense. 

The opening double doors gave you valid reason to avert your eyes from Maxon's captivating stare. King Clarkson and his queen glided past the knights, flanked by two of their own. Neither looked like they'd gotten much beauty sleep, but seeing as it's the king and queen, relative to the other inhabitants of the room they were breathtaking.

Peculiarly, you found your voice lowering by its own volition; as though you were gossiping about the couple to their son. "Shouldn't they be downstairs?" 

"You'd think so." Was Maxon's steadfast agreement before approaching his disgruntled parents.

Hesitantly, you perused around the dinner table to catch the temporary name tags. Mainly for food service, given how picky some of the chancellors were. Thankfully, you wouldn't be dining here tonight.

In which case, now that Maxon has company of higher importance, you believed the makeshift gambling room demanded more of your attention than the last supper over here.

After peaking at Maxon to confirm he wouldn't mind, you slipped out into the corridor. 

Making your way to the sub-floor, your mind went back to Maxon's pitying statement. How long would it take for you to "get used" to this? Desensitized to the urge to unconditionally please any politician or royal? 

Was Gideon used to it? Was he with the Republic right now? Even the thought made you skittish.

It was certainly a balance you had to strike. Maintaining any dignity or consistency of character, like you were taught, versus: tripping over your ideals to get into every socialites' good graces, a primal desperation.

You knew it was rooted in fear for your life—your current life, anyway. That you weren't fully secure in this new and shiny status of yours. 

Discarding a fake friendship brought with it the same paranoia a hoarder feels when they contemplate throwing something out. What if it's still useful? What if you regret it later? You never know when you'll need something.

You don't want to risk appearing as a girl who can't stick to their guns by someone who admires the quality; end up like those slimy, amoral characters in fairytales do. So you hold onto the parasite, despite the buyer's remorse and despite knowing fairytales aren't real. 

You shook your head turning the corner. Honestly. They're the literal opposite of real. The most applicable moral they've churned out is how forests are dangerous. What else is there?

"You." Your eyes fixated on something near the end of the hallway. A female figure clinging to the wall like some kind of fly.

Oh. You guess there's that. "Me."

Celeste looked tired. Not that her ruddy cheeks weren't radiant or her posture was lacking, but in her dark, dull eyes. In her tattered lips, pressed into a line. Her hair was still in the same style she wore for the Swendish reception. 

"How'd you do it?" The black cherry tint on her lips was deteriorating. "Get your fingers everywhere."

"What are you doing here, Celeste?" You droned. "The Selected's living quarters are upstairs."

"Did he choose you?" She leaned against the wall. "And the rest of us are here to make the process look photogenic?"

If she's ignoring your questions, you'll gladly give hers the same treatment. You continued your saunter down the aisle, keeping your eyes forward. 

There's been seldom times so far you've felt at ease ignoring the traditional Selected duties, but to curb this termagant stick? You'd play the card King Clarkson supplied you without a second thought.

Your silent thwart didn't deter the girl yet. Soon as you passed her spot, she matched your tempo, sashaying down the hall in parallel. Her fingers ran along the wall like a child dragged their hands over book spines.

"Why don't you go to bed?" You coaxed.

"Not until I figure this out." That was the first time she'd actually answered you. 

It was like the model had a magnifying glass on you, studying every imperfection of your body. A pathologist running an autopsy. 

You rolled your eyes. A shame how misplaced that intensity was. Not many can make someone feel like a victim in a homicidal investigation. This one could for all the wrong reasons. If only her head wasn't filled with a majority of water, she could've been a productive member of society. "Tell me when you're done." 

Then again, who are you to tell someone where to put their skills to use? You weren't your sister. 

"Have you slept with him?" You have never wanted to ram someone's head into a wall so badly, and that's saying something.

You kept your mouth closed. Lips pursed, but still closed. Celeste, for how much she was copying you, could not follow suit.

"That's fantastic," she jeered. "And to think I've been off the pill since the Report. All this mess for nothing."

Hold on. You turned to Celeste, who didn't seem at all contrite for what just slipped from her lips. "You brought birth control with you?"

"Periods, [F/n]," Celeste said. "For periods. Don't know what genes you've been blessed with, but mine are painful as hell."

That.. made sense. "But I wouldn't mind my maternity leave cutting this whole televised harem thing short, either." 

The true colors shine through. "I'm just surprised you'd think of wasting your money on it for the unprotected sex part. Your personality's plenty effective."

"Very funny."

"I haven't laid a finger on him," you confirmed. "Surprising, I know. I don't mean to confuse you, but I think he likes me more than you. Maybe he can tell when someone's slept her way to the top."

A gasp leapt from Celeste's throat, followed by a fiery snap. "How dare you! I haven't given anyone any favors in my field, and I don't plan to!"

Your hands pressed together like one would do in prayer. "Can you blame me for coming to that conclusion? You barely know me, yet the second question that comes out of your mouth during this discussion is if I've taken Maxon to bed."

Celeste turned away, scoffing, but that wouldn't stop you. "You've had since the Report to wonder why Maxon could enjoy my company. And the only reason you came up with is that I've gone down on him. That says something about you, not me." 

You looked at your hands, and a short laugh escaped you. "Plus, you openly confessed you've considered pregnancy scaring your way to royal status a second ago. Am I supposed to think you're the Virgin Mary reincarnated?"

"I-"

"Don't even try to defend yourself," you interrupted; your voice was sharper than you'd expected, to your startle. "It's not worth looking like you lack the self-awareness."

For the first time since her arrival, you weren't the one ignoring her. The girl stared at her feet, muttering something to herself like a child wanting to get the last word in.

You felt like pulling your hair out. But for the sake of appearances, you preserved your cool and unaffected countenance. Atop your building frustration, however, was another emotion: bafflement.

Bafflement as you why she's trying this on you again. Why she would even badger you after each time she has you've made it clear you could care less about her, or even the other Selected's, opinions. They might leave you with a bad conscience, but at the end of the day, they have negligible worth to you and your goals.

Honestly, you thought you finally scared her off in the Women's Room. You downright show her how you'd rather look insane than stare at her with your mouth open as she berates you. 

Then she's back on her bullshit not even a day later. Acting like you haven't met and verbally pummeled her twice thus far. The déjà vu was beginning to tire you out.

You could see the dull red doors of the impromptu gambling room up ahead, a sign to wrap up your conversation with Celeste. You massaged your eyebrows.

"Come on. We've gone through this before," you urged. "You know I don't play along with your mean girl schtick. Do you actually need something, or?"

Celeste was still turning your question over in her head by the time you'd arrived. "Any pointers?"

"For Maxon?" You turned to her, hand on the wooden panel. The girl's eyes were faded as the untouched walls of the sub-floor's corridor.

She didn't say anything. You'd say she looked almost antsy if you knew you could elaborate if prompted. But you couldn't, so you had to infer.

Reputation maintenance. 

Once again, an inference. Maybe a misinformed one, given the lack of context. 

Even so, right now, you can't formulate another explanation for her behavior. Why else would she bother interacting with you? Why else would she talk so casually of her ethically ambiguous thoughts and methods? Because you had the same endgames. 

Kind of like you, she needed advice on how to solidify her position on the A-list. But you weren't sure why. 

Lucky you, you can give someone advice without knowing their motives. "Do you have any applicable skills other than being emaciated?"

Celeste crosses her arms, pointing her feet inwards in a trepidatious shuffle. "If I need to.”

"Hone a few and work on any palace-goer you run into. See what sticks." You opened the door a crack, wondering if Gideon or Maxon would be inside. "I had to experiment for a bit until I fell into my routine."

The buzz radiating from the entrance enveloped you and Celeste as soon as you pulled the handle. The Selected frowned. "You're going in there?"

"Yeah. One of the add-ons to my routine." One foot was inside the room, and immediately nearly stepped on my a knight. "Sorry, but I don't think you're allowed in."

Celeste backed away, hands raised and shoulders relaxing. "I got it. I will be—eventually."

"That's the spirit," you murmured as you closed the door, leaning against the frame. 

Having just helped Celeste, you've completely forgotten why you chose to. A fleeting moment of empathy for her aspirations, unaligned with those of the Selected? Or simply how similar it felt to your own? 

How similar you made it feel, rather?  
You made your rounds, stewing in your conspiracies. 

There's a very good chance made Celeste out to be more humane than she really is in your head. Projected your own reasons for your desperate need of princess-level importance onto her. 

Then what was her story? Why does she need to be here, specifically?

"Madame," you heard Woodwork call. "Were the tables supposed to be in semicircular formation, or.. uh, something else?"

"Sorry?" You followed his voice. 

Let's think. Celeste is a supermodel gaining sentience. Old enough to know some things can't last forever, young enough to have a handful of opportunities to avoid dead ends. 

You found Woodwork hunched over a clipboard alongside and a maid, scrutinizing the paperwork. The maid was plain, but the guards were dressed in a white gold armor you hadn't seen before. 

"When was this?" Lodge snatched the paperwork out of his comrade's hands. "Are we supposed to know this? Because I listened in military history, and I've never heard of an Admiral Yi or a battle at whatever Hansando is."

Perhaps entering the Selection was the product of her refusal to transition to a less lavish lifestyle when modeling gigs run dry. You wouldn't need to worry about overdue electrical bills with your husband as king.

With you and the small army of billiard table's first encounter, you were shocked by the quantity more so than the quality. Now, though, you could ogle stupidly at the tech packed into each one.

Prying your gaze from the array, you inspected the diagram. They wouldn't know, and neither could you recall it, but the bulk of the notes were in your handwriting. Along with the variety of shakily sketched lines as illustration.

Yikes. Some revisions were made in an unknown cursive (the queen's, maybe) and Maxon's shorthand, but the geeky reference was yours.

Does that mean Maxon saw it? You tried not to to humor it, lest you die of embarrassment. "Hagikjin: crane wing formation. It's like a U shape. You're fine, the placement looks good."

"Thank god," Woodwork whispered. He lifted the back of his arm to his forehead, and your attention was once again forced onto their new suits. 

What looked to be a solid gold vambrace adorning the guard's arm bounced whatever light it could scrounge straight into your retinas. The gleam was so ferocious had to shield your eyes.

Inverted afterimages swarmed your vision the minute you saved yourself from the shine. "Where'd you get the new outfits? I'm going blind over here."

A panicked Woodwork was the first thing you saw soon as your vision recovered. And by recovered, you meant wasn't comprised of nothing but floods of color.  
He pulled his blurry arm to his chest, rubbing the wrist.

"Oh! My deepest apologies, madame," he squeaked. "They're-"

"Your maids made them for us for the occasion!" Lodge filled in. "They did a fine job, I’ll say. Very sparkly!"

Oh! Your maids. They were here in spirit!

It was. Your eyes traced the sleek, chromatic curvature of the guard's gauntlets that your eyes could. Looked better than any dress they'd made for you, really. Which was fine by you—if anything, it helped your image. 

And you were glad they were getting into it. "I'm still shocked they have windows here. Below the ground floor, I mean. How does that work?"

That's your cue. The last thing you saw before heading off was Woodwork looking at Lodge like he had three heads for half a second.

"Lodge," he said. "We aren't.. actually underground. The foundation's uneven is all."

"What?"

"The palace was built on a hill. We're at sea level right now."

"I might've grown up in Clermont, but I'm not an idiot. I know how hills and elevation work, and they don't work like this."

Sometimes you think landing a position so prestigious as a palace guard would have to be a highly competitive process. Other times you didn't know how some of these men found where to sign up for the job, nonetheless get chosen.

Was it just you, or was the maid population beginning to dwindle?

You frowned, examining the room. There were surely at least double the numbers of them a minute ago. You looked for wherever they'd gone and found a narrow side door which they were all filing out of with their backs to the wall. 

You were contemplating grabbing one of them when you spotted a familiar trio fighting the current from the other side, pushing to get at least a hand through.

The maids, in their sheeplike states, didn't seem to notice who they were about to trample. 

"My Queen?" You caught a glint of her peat black eyes. One from behind.. "Maxon?"

You couldn't catch his face, but the tall, toned build was unmistakable. Maxon pushed himself through the loop of a maid's arm and reached for you. "[N/n]-"

You took his hand in yours, and for a moment your hold was soft. But then you restructured your grip—more akin to a baited hook having caught a fish. And, taking a deep breath, you pulled.

Turns out, the amount of newtons required to yank Maxon out of that wedge was grossly blown up by the visual stimuli. 

The care with which, say, a surgical clamp pinched and peels away skin would've been closer to the mark. For your robust, indelicate pull sent an unprepared Maxon flying into your just as unprepared stature. 

"Jesu-!" Maxon choked. You tried to block Maxon from hitting you like a truck with your free arm, but by then you'd already been rammed by his chest. 

The prince stumbled further over you before finally securing his arms around your waist, cementing you into the floor and hence ending his long, forward fall.   
When you bent backwards from his weight, he molded into your stance, burying his face beside the arch of your neck. 

So the prince regained his footing—on either side of your feet. Never have you been flustered by how tiny you were compared to anyone until now.

"Whew!" Maxon drew his head off your neck, his hands moving up onto your shoulders. "Your strength for how petite you are never ceases to amaze me."

The instant your body, which was leaned into Maxon already, registered his chest against yours, you decided you no longer wanted to be there. Your internal body temperature couldn't handle this influx.

You pulled away. "I'm not pet-"

You were cut off by a stream of apologies and "excuse me"s sounding off from the maids. As the current royals moved past them. The buffer maid that had the luck of being between you would've been knocked onto the floor if not for Queen Amberly catching her.

All left in the room were the finer guards and bartenders. The more the lights dimmed, the more tense you grew. 

Everyone was here in the midst last minute preparations for the receiving of the Republic, but the atmosphere seemed so lightheartedly rushed that you began to doubt the time of their imminent arrival. 

The Republic was coming. They could be here in a matter of seconds. Very suddenly, you recalled the anxiety ridden voice of Queen Amberly as she relayed information on them to you.

Minus the name changes and morphing policies, you were about to meet an elder god amongst states. The only powerful one. One that Illéa needed to bewitch to the best of its abilities, and you were unsure if you could provide.

You turned to Maxon, whose parents quickly slipped past him and to the front of the room. His switched to a stone-faced expression you'd see him wear on the Report. "Are they-?"

Behind you, you heard the doors open in klaxon announcement. A rush of cold air filled the room, and two people entered.


	20. The Romanovs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm albeit not my favorite chapter there are definitely things coming into light

The presence of the new entities, the new unofficial royals, swept over everyone you could see. Even Maxon, who not long ago had advised your loosening up, had gone stiff.

"Good evening, Madame Directorate. Mister Romanov." You still couldn't get over the irony of their chosen surnames, but what was more surprising was the warm, syrupy inflection King Clarkson has adopted. Nothing like how he treated the Swendish. "Welcome."

Dare you turn around? Firstly, you made your way to the nearest station as quickly and innocuously as possible. Getting out of Maxon's, the actual prince's, way topped all else.

Next, you made yourself at home and unnoticeable amongst the rest of the present staff. 

Were you supposed to be at the billiard tables? Yes. But as of now, the function of everyone except the royals was to serve as the pretty and posed lining of the room. And you did not want to stand out at the moment.

Falling into attention with the handful of bartenders, who were the closest to you at the time, your eye couldn't help but catch something glittering at the front of the oh, good god.

Regent and incumbent directorates Sofya and Alexei Romanov, respectively, stood poised a few inches away from King Clarkson and beside Gideon. 

Sofya the Eager was.. overwhelming. The thing that you had seen glimmering was- was whatever kind of crown that rested atop her head.

At first glance, it looked almost like a tengkolok. A golden yellow, brocade fabric swaddled her scalp, the design too far and too detailed for you to see. It loosened and thinned out above, like a poorly tied hair sash, and was topped by a much more Western-looking, cameo tiara crown. 

The equally extravagant songket-ish cloth below entangled the base like the sepal supports its flower, but began to morph into drapes wrapping the circumference. Those drapes fell with each dip into bedazzled tassels, veiling the regent's face in marigold metal and pearl.

Her hair was coiffed just as luxuriously. Looped around her ears, pulled into a rollercoaster of powdered braids and twists, all the while leaving some of its mass left to pool over her shoulders like a swath of roses. Alongside her chunky earrings, which grazed her clavicle.

She wore a bib necklace. Each flang seemed to have its own theme to it, like how each month is assigned one birthstone. She donned a dress the size of a ball gown; a train littered with precious gemstones fit for a western wedding trailed behind. The strips of cloth that clung to her, her pendants, the crown—individually glorious as they were. none of them had any unity. 

For her actual physical characteristics, the only thing you could determine was her skin was soot black and she was of average stature. Everything else was, literally, shrouded. 

Everything about her outfit was, lightly put, a clusterfuck of multifarious, unrelated civilizations with their own style of garment. It appeared as though Sofya simply counted off five on her hand and asked a designer to combine them. 

A maelstrom of pictures in books you thought you'd long forgotten fired off in your head with each bracelet or frilly piping you saw. Those rings, that neckline, those shoes, the silhouette- 

They were each from extinct cultures. It looked fun and breathtaking, but had a somewhat childish look to it. Like she didn't know enough about each to discern and fuse them properly. 

Fearfully, you looked to the woman's son. Trashy, but in a subtler way. 

Relatively, his garb was miles more humble. Like Clarkson and Maxon, he wore a fitted suit of an acceptable russet color and pale ochre trim, dress pants to go with. Judging by the untucked collar, silk undershirt, as well. The knee-high charcoal boots were a statement, but not a horrendous one.

Though, if you consider how both the suit and undershirt were unbuttoned just below where they should've been, revealing the tiniest bit of chest below the boy's golden necklace, the overall impression shifted. 

He donned a total of four accessories, which wasn't all that much considering Sofya. His necklace, as mentioned, looked like an enlarged and flattened version of a man's wedding band. A dark, auburn sash was tied around his waist, and a single shoulder cape of matching color fell right above it. 

Not as bad as his mother, but your royal family wore nothing of the sorts. If these people didn't want to be viewed as kings and queens, they'd have to stop dressing like them. Worse, even. 

Speaking of, his crown of choice was a gold wreath. The headdress was shiny as his hair—off-black and almost-but-not-quite slicked back. 

You briefly went back to the actual despots in the room for a more direct comparison. Queen Amberly was the only one wearing something truly reflective of her status, a ruby diadem. 

Take away her husband and son's titles, and the duo would blend in with any circle of higher order businessmen. 

But not the elected politicians, no. They needed the finest robes to represent their country. You thought they'd at least try to hide it.

It seemed that during your assessment of the two, King Clarkson and.. Director Sofya? Dame Sofya? Tribune Sofia? How would you refer to her? Anyway, they'd exchanged some words, and her entourage had begun filling in seats at the tables or heading for the banquet. 

You were about to head over there and, you know, do your job, when you saw Gideon petrified at the door. 

Naturally, you forgot what you were doing and made your way to him. He looked okay from afar, at least. Nothing out of place.

"Hey." You weren't sure if the translator could hear you. All of his interest appeared preoccupied with the second hand of his watch, which his downturned eyes were glued to. 

"Hi." Had he grown white hairs since you saw him last?

Your eyes slid over to where the Romanovs were huddling around the wasp cookies. "So they're a representative democracy?"

Gideon was massaging his temples. "Oh, how I loathe warrior kings. So daft, so stymieing, so strident."

"A king," you observed.

"All they're doing by calling their homely anocratic stratocracy overseas a republic is making themselves look more uneducated," he muttered rapidly. "They think they're so impressive with their witty cultural aphorisms and military medals. So impressive."

"But you misprize their use," you said. "It's easier to persuade an unread, moderate conquerer than an extreme, sedentary philosopher."

"Mm-hm. That's a non-sequitur," Gideon griped. "We've invited them here with a military alliance in mind. If anything, they're in their element."

You rubbed your eyes. Gideon has been cross with you and Maxon when necessary, but never has he been this bitchy about it. "Did these people do something in particular to piss you off?"

Gideon was looking past you. Your frown tightened, and you waved a hand over your face. "Um? Hello? Gideon?"

"He's still staring at me," he hissed.

"Who?"

"Alexei Romanov!" Gideon's eyed snapped back to you. "It's as if everything that comes out of his mouth is a pickup line!"

You-?? Huh? "What???"

"You know what the first thing he said was when he saw me?" Gideon fumed. "He turned to his mother and said "I want that one" in Russian! Like I couldn't speak Russian!"

...Oh. "He would make comments on every youthful person we walked past! "Make her mine, I like him"—it was insufferable! How do you expect to charm them when you can barely speak formal English?!"

"Up to 93% of communication is nonverbal, Gideon." Gideon have you the most fatigued look you'd ever seen. "Sorry. But we're all adults here, nobody's going to respond to his flirting."

Pan over to Alexei, who was working on Tanner nearby as he and his mother settled in at one of the billiard tables beside King Clarkson. Tanner mainly blushed, glancing at his commander-in-chief every once in awhile. If he wasn't looking, he'd laugh.

"You're right," Gideon mused acrimoniously. "Look at that poor guard. His face screams discomfort."

You scoffed. "So he's enjoying it! Whatever! It's not like you can blame the guy—Alexei. Tanner's a looker."

"...Okay?"

"Besides, like you said, there the language barrier! Most people here are too imperious to tolerate a serious conversation with someone who speaks broken English. He may be cute, but he's on a lingual leash. So long as you don't fall for his wolf-whistling, we're fine."

Gideon rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. If that's your only caveat, I think I'll be alright."

"Are you two done?" You felt someone push you lightly on the back. More than the required scare factor to make you jump.

"Maxon?" Gideon turned.

"Shouldn't you be somewhere in a high chair with Alexei?" You accused, twirling around. Maxon didn't look happy with your posted question, so you added on. "And how long have you been behind us?"

"Long enough to hear the conversation derail," he derided. "Now both of you get over there and do your jobs."

This must've been the first time Maxon had to be the bigger person in your little trio, and the position suited him well. You and Gideon parted ways, him limping to Sofya's side and you to your designated placement as the popular kids' croupier.

«-What makes a kingdom pleasant,» Alexei tittered in Russian with his mother while you, Gideon, and Maxon all closed in from different angles. «Ce sont les jolies femmes et hommes, is it not?»

Ugh. His eyes found you as you approached the table. 

«Like this beauty! An ingénue if I've ever seen one.» He said that like "ingénue" isn't a- whatever. The prince cleared his throat. "Good evening. How do you do?"

«Good evening,» you replied with a curtsy. "Quite well, but I'd be better without the licentious commentary."

If Alexei even registered your swift lapse into Russian, you were too busy fiddling with the shuffling machine. "Forgive the automatic shuffler, it was already installed—we know you prefer human dealers through-and-through. Vingt-et-un?"

Gideon signed something to Sofia—you suppose at some he'd begun—and she agreed. After some seating arrangements (Alexei and Sofya scooted to the flanks of the group and Gideon stood beside Sofya) the royals started to play.

Turns out, Alexei had realized you spoke Russian earlier. He was just a bit slow on the discovery. After the fact, he insisted you speak Russian with him, which you refused under King Clarkson's silent scrutiny.

He, however, would still speak Russian to you, going through no mental hoops to convert it or to offhandedly ask Gideon for a word in English he didn't know mid-sentence, as he did when addressing the king or queen.

«Why didn't I see you at the gates, princess?» Alexei asked, pushing back his eigengrau hair. «Too pretty to be seen in public?»

"I've no relation to the royal family." Balancing an answer between concise enough to disinterest but polite enough not to ruffle his feathers was tenacious, but you were handling it. "His Highness' King Clarkson's only child is His Majesty Prince Maxon."

"The only child!" Alexei leaned over the table to snag a knowing look to Maxon, who was wedged between his parents. "I am only child! Were you as bored as I growing up?"

Nudged by his father, Maxon chuckled, staring at his hand. "Often times, yes. The knights and advisors were kind to me, but I didn't have many age peers."

"On the bright side, you will not feel obliged divide your granted powers amongst your siblings when the time comes for you to ascend," Alexei sighed with an off-putting whimsicality, leaning back. "All power funnels to you."

"Has the lawmaking being divvied up between you and other directorates proved tiring?" Maxon inquired. Sofya smiled tiredly, so he probed. "Really? Run into any diplomatic walls recently?"

"Walls?" Alexei echoed, a broad grin cracking. "Would it-"

Alexei practically splayed himself over the green felt to grab Gideon's attention.  
«Would it be offensive to say I wanted to reinstate jus primae noctis?» 

If that was supposed to be a joke, Gideon wasn't laughing. The ravenet looked at you, as though to say "do you see this shit, [F/n]?". Alexei followed his gaze, and somehow his smile widened.

«Sir Friedman, I assure you I was jesting. In the same sense, I'm sure the lady has a sense of humor. Does she not?»

You weren't sure if you were feeling vulnerable, or if Alexei was actually conniving, but that final question felt like a challenge. Like the elite was daring you to say the joke upset you. 

If you ignored it at the sake of not ruining the mood, you would be going against your feelings. Your beliefs. Which you had lesser issues with before, but now you weren't sure.

If you were to stay true to yourself in that moment, and say it did, you'd be opening the doors for a derailed discussion on the exhausting sensitivity of women. In this current, male-dominated setting, you'd like to prove that otherw-

«Alexei!» Sofya snapped. «What have I told you about such crass remarks?!»

All eyes turned to the woman, who was staring directly at her son and his loud mouth. The incumbent directorate stuttered like a drowning yacht beneath his regent's scolds.

«But mother!» He half-laughed. «They weren't crass—English common law under feudalism is a little-known, interesting piece of history!»

Sofya groaned, massaging what she could of her scalp amidst her crowns Bantu knots. «My Father, what did I do to deserve such an unfilial son?»

«Mama! I asked her if she was okay with it!»

That was a nice interruption! You had a sense of humor, anyway. Just not a facetious one. "Not quite up my alley. I find the story of Baron Corvo de Corvis more amusing," you clarified.

Gideon signed your response, and Sofya shook her head. «Such a good girl. You don't have to act like my boy didn't put you on the spot.»

«I didn't!» Alexei obscured sight of his mouth with a hand, but the creases underneath his eyes hinted at a smile. «Lovely. My mother favors a foreigner over me.»

"How about some lansquenet?" King Clarkson proposed. With it, you quickly learned one lovely detail about the Republic's representatives: Eurasians really were high rollers. 

Better yet, bad high rollers. 

When Alexei put down his first couple small islands of chips, you really thought he he knew what he was doing. He certainly looked like it. You thought you'd have to worry about them signaling one another, card counting, quotidian card sharp behavior, but no. At least with Alexei.

"Please do not give my son anymore chips," Gideon translated as Sofya the Eager signed something to him out of Alexei's line of sight. "He's-"

"Hm?" Alexei turned, and Sofia shoved her hands onto her cards. 

You smiled. "I'll inform the "house." Being unafraid to lose money isn't as beneficial a gambling skill if you play like Marie-Antoinette."

Overhearing this, a croupier from the adjacent table cycled to your spot. As you budded off the group, you could hear a Alexei drunkenly call after you.

«Don't go, princess.» Beat. «Do you think you could get me another appletini?»

You pressed your eyes. You will not judge a Eurasian man on what alcohol he drinks. You will not judge a Eurasian man on what alcohol he drinks. 

After stopping at a small, sad table overcrowded with chip dispensers and a lone computer to request the clueless maid not give Alexei anything more, you decided you deserved a short break at the bar.

The bartender, who'd you come to befriend a few hours prior, didn't so much as glance at you. "Fancy seeing you here. Another one?"

"Yep." You stared longingly at the stool in front of the slab of table. "The apéritif of the night, so it would seem."

"I'm not sure an apple martini is considered an apéritif." A woman sat in the uninhabited seat beside the one you were mourning for. Your eyes flickered to her, and fell onto the fiery red diadem framing her forehead. 

"M-my Queen!" You and the bartender curtsied. You couldn't tell with the hazy lighting, but it looked as though the royal rolled her eyes amidst the advantage of low visibility.

"I assure you I don't pay as much attention to title as my husband does." She turned to you. "You don't have to go back."

"Sorry?"

"To the table." Amberly's eyes scanned the room behind you. "Your substitute will do just fine. You're still participating in the Selection, you'll need to be up early tomorrow morning."

Again with the Selection, feeding into your logic crisis. "I'll be fine. Maxon's toughing its out."

"Maxon hasn't been feeling at ease with Sofya the Eager's presence." Amberly said, voice soft. "He told me he'd been misinformed that only Alexei was to come."

You followed Amberly's gaze. Viktor Vladimirovich and Ilya Vasilyevich Romanov, two finely dressed salt-and-peppered men, sat at the table to the left of your original one. Their hair, too, looked like T4 bacteriophages.

They were engaged in their own confab, talking lowly and stealing glances at King Clarkson and Sofya. 

"I wouldn't advise using him as an arbiter. I don't think he plans to retire for the night until Alexei and Sofya do, but back in Moscow, it's only eleven in the morning. He won't hold out nearly as long as their jet lag will."

"What about Sir Friedman?" You looked over to Gideon, who was signing something to Sofya. You couldn't decipher what, but the directorate's boisterous laugh after was clear enough. 

"He'll be beside our guests for the remainder of the night. However, his morning schedule has been cleared." Sofya said something after the fact. Something-something Sonyushka.

You squinted. "Breakfast is at eight, and my only other affairs are past noon. If my sleep schedule is the the primary concern, I can function for another hour or three."

"My son cannot." Amberly stood, an old fashioned in her hand. "And I'm worried he is preparing to impede on his thought process coms tomorrow. Ahem-" she raised the glass. "For my husband. 

"What I mean is-" the brunette sighed. "Will you please get him to bed? There's no need for him to be up so late."

Again, you glanced to where Maxon sat. He had his cards, for some reason or another, displayed to everyone else. Clarkson looked disappointed, but not surprised, as Maxon took some of his and Alexei's chips. Sofya relayed something to Gideon, but all Maxon gave in reply was an eye roll. 

"You want me to pull him out?" You were sure you weren't missing any discrepancies with the scene. "It looks like he's making some gains."

"I would appreciate it, yes," Amberly huffed. "If you could make an excuse to get him out of the room, I could handle the rest."

You laid back against the counter. "An excuse."

This event was the centerpiece of his and King Clarkson's schedule. The only thing you could think of that could serve as a valid reason for him to leave was...

*

"You're kidding me, right?" You shut the door behind yourselves. "I might be tipsy, but a catfight at one in the morning? Really? Why would I break it up, anyways?”

You shrugged. "They could've been sleeping over in one another's rooms! Queen Amberly talked about such occurrences all the time during her Selection."

"Well, none of the women in my Selection are that nice to each other." Maxon turned around, hand reaching for the knob of the door. 

You grabbed his wrist the moment before he could pull open the door. "She told me to get you out of there."

Maxon gave you a look. "Who?"

"Who do you think?" Maxon retracted his hand from yours. "Your mother."

"Oh." His voice achieved an almost computerized monotony. "My mother. Of course she would. She could care less for my career, or for the fact I'm an adult now, or really anything I want to do. If she thinks it's bad for me, then I have to stop."

"It's not that she doesn't care for your career." Maxon finally started to budge, and you began your slow trek to his room. "It's that she thinks your mental health should top it."

"Well, it shouldn't." Maxon crossed his arms. "She's never been able to see that.

"Being the monarch to-be means this country is my duty. It comes before my need for relaxation, my need for sleep, my need to eat, or breathe.. and while my father has maintained it, he's done a minimalist's work. I refuse to let myself live so luxuriously and give nothing in return for those who provide me my luxuries. Not work as hard as they have, and god, how they've worked."

"Maxon.." you stopped. You'd never seen him so serious. Or heard such ardency in his voice.

"This is the king's sacrifice to his people. And my mother, a previous Four, has forgotten. She never had to dwell on it until married. But you'd think, at least some times, she'd look at me. At me, and my pampered hands, and think of the callouses she bore on hers at my age. Of the suffering she'd endured until she got lucky. And think of the millions of others who didn't. I do."

"Maxon," you said, taking his hand in yours. "You can't expect to please everyone at the expense of your own sanity."

The prince did not respond with the usual beat your repartees would hold. He leaned into you with a sigh, brushing the side of your hand with his thumb.

If his next sentence wasn’t so cold, you mr dizzy spell might’ve lasted longer. "You hold the same standards to yourself. If you didn't, you would've refused my mother. Instead you made a fool out of yourself following her orders. A bit easier said than done, huh?"

"Don't be like that." You tried to pull him along, but he wouldn't budge. "You want me to be on poor terms with your mother?"

"Ever since you got here, you've been losing your own political stances sucking up to the biome here," Maxon spat. "When is it over, [F/n]? When will you reach the summit of the mountain, your dream career, and finally learn to say no to the trust fund babies?"

"Maxon, if we're being honest, you're the trust fund baby, not the palace natives."

"And yet you've never brown-nosed around me."

"You know what?" Your healthy pushing turned into a shove. "You keep saying "sucking up" and "brown-nosed" like it's a bad thing. I'm overjoyed that you've never been in a situation where you needed to swallow your pride to get to some ends, but I have. So I'm sorry if I don't come off as dignified enough for you. But this is different."

"How?"

"Because you're a prince, and I was a Seven. What's the worst they could do to you?"

"Kill me," Maxon responded curtly. "Don't be a Pharisee, [F/n]. You've been here during rebel attacks. I'm a government worker, not a celebrity. As long as I'm rich and poorly publicized, they wouldn't care. If I start to slip, they'd have my head."

You looked high and low. "I don't know about you, but I haven't seen your father's head on a spike anywhere."

"I was born into serving Illéa." Maxon was walking ahead of you now, like an explorer slashing through the jungle. "You chose this path; you know it isn't thought to be a low-stress job. Even if I wanted a bit of me time every once in awhile, which I don't, Illéa doesn't."

Shit. You hated how much sense he was making right now. You stared at the floor, pulling your hair. "She's just a mother whose worried for her child. Can you blame her?"

"For not seeing the bigger picture? A little. How much I work is directly related to how happy my subjects are, what my roughly billion subjects want outweigh what I, one person, wants. It's basic math."

"Urgh." You felt a migraine coming on. "You want your rightfully complaining id to take backseat for the rest of your life, not for the prestige or future historians' approval, but because you're just that selfless? My head hurts."

"And here we find the source of our clashing dogmas," Maxon's voice, to your thankfulness, softened. "You've fed me one too many books on egoistic altruism to make me feel like I'm not inherently selfish, but it's nice to know you're worried."

Still, all of this talk of noble causes were much to your discomfiture. "What kind of genetic makeup do you need to have- you're going to be such a good king, but at what cost?"

"Hey, if you can be on the edge of working yourself to death for the past month for the sake of the future, you can understand my self-sacrificial march towards progress."

"False. It's different when it's you."

"That's why you'll be there to take some of the load," he encouraged. "And why I'm looking for a princess at the moment. One unlike my mother, though."

"Why?" You asked. Maxon sneered.

"She's just... okay, like what's happening right now? She always believed mother knows best, and now that she's a parent, it's her time to shine or something. If I try to question her actions, she tells me I'm too young to understand. It's insufferable."

"That's a universal vitriol you harbor," you sympathized.

"One time, when I was fourteen, I wrote her an entire essay supporting my position in a dispute we just had. Because she told me to, mind you. You know what she wrote back?" He sounded surprised himself. ""I thought the exact same thing when I was your age!""

"Hah!" You boomed. "And you know what you say back? "Ah, Pericles, I do wish we could have met in those days when you were at your cleverest in such matters.""

Maxon stopped. "I say what?"

"Or you could substitute Pericles for mother." You wiped a tear from your eye. "You know, that thing Athenian general Alcibiades said to his uncle. Pericles said "when I was your age, I talked just the just the way you are now talking" or something, and Alcibiades was like "if only I had known you when you were at your best." Murdered him in cold blood."

"That's-" Maxon stopped to process the information. You eagerly looked on as he rubbed his chin. "Oh, that's good. That's really good."

"Right?!" You exclaimed as Maxon started to chortle. "Like, how do you respond to that? So naturally I memorized the line so I could use it whenever someone pulled out the age card on me."

"Is there any other historical skits you know?"

"Off the top of my head? A letter American statesman Alexander Hamilton wrote to John Laurens in 1779 describing his ideal wife."

"That was.. not what I was expecting."

"Don't get me wrong, it's for the sole purposes of ensuring I'm everything 18th century diplomats disliked." You skipped up the stairs. "Things I am not? Handsome, sensible, well bred, tender. Things I love? Money and scolding. I’ve no uhtceare knowing I'm something he's expressed antipathy towards.”

Maxon grimaced. "I believe my father had similar tastes in women."

Overcome with the sudden urge to vomit, you grabbed a handrail. "I did not, in any way, mean to insult your mother. She is a lovely queen, and-"

"You're fine, [F/n]," Maxon laughed, nudging you to the top of the second floor. "I know she is, but like any of us, she's only human. If anything, my father's grooming is to blame."

"Your father?" You swung around to the third set of stairs. Maxon's shoulders sagged, but the bounce in his step still matched your own.

"He'd tell me stories from his Selection when mine was coming up. All these scales he'd apply to the contestants during his own until he a woman, my mother, who satisfied all metrics. It left the impression that I was supposed to treat this as a trip to the mall.

"I'm sure he thought it was wonderful advice. Might've been—his means were effective. But by finding a wife so conditioned to be kind, he also found a queen who drifts towards passivity and acquiescence." 

As soon as those words left his mouth, Maxon went into rictor mortis. "Who- who- who I love to death, of course! As previously stated!"

You grinned as Maxon slowly began to trail off. "And- and thankfully, father's managed to have the kingdom, as I'm sure you're aware, fall in love with her, but when it comes to civic.. oh, I sound like a moody teenager. Do I sound teenager-y right now? Bashing my parents?"

"A little," you assented. Maxon let out an anguished wail.

"It's finally happening." He fiddled with his hair. "I never felt any such feelings towards them when I was starting puberty, and now it's catching up to me."

The Maraschino red of his tie seemed to radiate a candy red aura as you entered the blinding lights of the third and final floor. "Wait. You know what? I think you're trying to scare me. You're upset that you lost your first argument against me."

"Argument?" You scoffed, turning away. "You've been sitting on that little dispute for this long? Don't be ridiculous. We weren't arguing. We agreed to disagree after breaking our beliefs down to their bare essentials."

"Yes, yes." Maxon nodded. "Of course."

You jabbed his side with your elbow. "If you keep making those claims, I'm going to start "arguing" again."

He bent away from the gesture, but was otherwise refusing to respond to it. "So you admit we were arguing."

"Did you fail to register the air quotes around "arguing" just now?"

This looping banter continued from the top of the stairs to the entrance to Maxon's room, where Hunter and Park stood in tenuous, sleep-deprived guard. You had your doubts they even noticed someone was with Maxon, nonetheless one of their instructors.

As the doors closed behind you, and you were out of sight of any judgmental stares, you kicked off your heels. "Whoo! I will never walk in these shoes again after this whole show is over with."

Maxon stepped out of his Oxford shoes with a little less pizazz. "I do suppose sneaking away from the persona non grata and her posse means I can get this damned coat off."

"Sofya the Eager?" You had the misfortune to look to Maxon as he removed his suit. 

You don't.. maybe it was, you know, the moderate-to-deep gashes you were tending to at the time, but you couldn't recall him looking so reminiscent of a Greek god the last time you saw him shirtless. 

You felt like you would've noticed how wife his back was, or how tracing his broader shoulders to his narrower waist formed a near perfect V. How much his chest jutted out from his side profile. How large his arms were..

Wait a minute. In a flash, you'd gotten over the rising temperature of the room. What does he do? Lift? Is there a gymnasium here you don't know about?

"I'm sure my father knew of her affairs and invited her nonetheless." Maxon folded his suit and laid it against the bed. "He's so desensitized. I pray I never grow to treat those Mephistophelian characters so eagerly as ruler."

Was he more muscular than you? No. You were the shadow vice captain of the knighthood and supervisor of the rexducere. His body mass index is naturally dwarfed by yours.

Experimentally, you lifted your arm and briefly flexed. You were buff, but your arms looked.. flabbier, in light of the male equivalent of top heavy standing before you. No, no, you were the king's guard's coordinator, you can't be..

"What are you doing?" Maxon asked. You drew both of your arms behind your back.

"Nothing." What were you talking about? Sofya? Oh, right. You'd almost forgot that the regent had ordered her husband's death. "It is a little ambiguous, morally."

Maxon raked his fingers through his hair, and all signs of the waves every being groomed were eradicated. This did not help your cause.

"And I know I'll have to make morally ambiguous decisions, but at the very least, it's bad PR. I understand that we need to increase our obsequiousness with these men, but any educated civilian isn't going to be happy with us." Maxon hit the palm of his hand with his fist as though he were a judge with a gavel. "Thus I have a right to be mad."

"There's not much you can do," you comforted. "Any civilian, educated or not, is looking at the Selection, not at our foreign endeavors. Sub specie aeternitatis, you're elongating the rule of the Schreave dynasty, and that's what matters. Think of it as good PR, but in the long term."

"But what about the present?" Maxon fell onto his bed, crumpling his coat. He raised his hands over his head. "The moment?"

You walked over to Maxon's bed, dropped onto the opposite side, and raised your hands over your head. "But what about the big picture? Not missing the forest for the trees?"

Mason laughed, blindly reaching over to hit you. "Stop using metaphors as evidence. It won't work on me."

"My empty rhetoric has worked countless of times, I won't stop using it now."

You couldn't see Maxon—your eyes were fixated on his ceiling—but the fact you didn't draw a chuckle out of him that time concerned you. "Yeah.. and, okay, I know this was awhile ago, but I'm sorry about what Gideon today at the Swendish reception."

At the Swendish reception? You couldn't think of anything the man said that Maxon would have to apologize for. "When he started scolding us?"

"Basically," Maxon yawned. "I don't know why he decided to drunkenly lash out then, but it was embarrassing. You shouldn't have had to listen to that."

"What?" You propped yourself up on your elbows. Maxon followed suit. "No-ho-ho, no, no. You don't need to be sorry. That was completely directed at me. I'm sorry you had to be there for it."

As you were apologizing, waves of what Gideon had said were returning to you, ready for dissection. And mulling it over, you steadily remembered it's connotations. Registered the blush creeping up your face. Why would Maxon think the translator's speech was meant for him? 

"No, that was for me. It was the spitting image of his reaction of something I talked to him of once—one of my many problems. I'm quite certain I knew-" Maxon paused, swallowing everything you just said. His eyes narrowed, cinnabar dusting his the top of his cheeks. "..-What he meant."


	21. They Were Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader avoids her bigger concerns.

You tried your best to read the notary papers Gideon had handed to you, but your mind was elsewhere. 

"I've also been thinking about something of my own twopence, if you would like to review it." Gideon wiggled in his seat. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could make common land more accessible to not just the poorer population, but to everyone? I've been looking at the areas surrounding the properties you've allocated, and there appears to be a lot of open space. Disused burial grounds, abandoned public works..

"We could refurbish those into open spaces. Things like playgrounds and libraries, you know. Of course, that would be a wholly different campaign from what we're currently doing, purchasing properties and all, but with the right delegates I think we could expand on the notion."

"I like the direction you're headed, but for now, we should work on solidifying our foundations with the current schemes." You've been reading over the text, but you hadn't been comprehending. "It still aggravates me that I can't work with the tenets myself."

"Well, they have your support through other means. Money isn't a panacea, but the finances at your disposal will certainty start the business on the right foot. All we need now are some stalwart candidates for landlords in Sumner."

"I can-"

"You'll do nothing yet," Gideon yawned, tapping his stack of papers against the table in chime with the clash of the guard's bayonets below. "You have interviews to attend, and trainings to supervise, and a prince to handle."

"Gideon-" you pinched the bridge of your nose. "This is literally my job. If I'm to found a company I'd like to do it right."

Gideon, in his honorable secretary manner, seemed more excited about your project than you've been lately. Wasn't his fault, but it bugged you nonetheless. "How about I give you a list of people I'd recommend and you can comb through their resumés?"

You leaned back on your already recliner chair, which didn't much enhance your desired air of contempt. "If you're keeping me out of the loop because I'm still within the Selection, just tell me."

"I'm keeping you out of the loop because you're in the Selection and we're doing this behind King Clarkson's back," Gideon stressed. "Your protection from the media isn't fully guaranteed. For now, it's best that, as a Selected, you aren't documented participating in anything outside palace walls until we move onto the Elite."

"Is this what Maxon felt like when he was told he had control in foreign affairs and Sofya was invited here without his approval anyway?"

Gideon stood up the second the directorate's name left your lips. "I admire your tenacity, [F/n], but don't let King Clarkson's seal of approval get to your head. Count your blessings and be grateful; your occupation amongst the guard remains and you've secured continued affiliation with the royal family after the Selection's conclusion."

You handed him your tree's worth of signed contracts. "Sure."

"That's all I wanted to discuss." Gideon dusted his suit. "You may return to your activities with the.." he gestured to the brawls on the ground floor. "The knighthood. Sonya has requested my company for brunch."

"Sonya?" You perked, frowning. Gideon's hands froze.

"Directorate Sofya." So that's what they're calling her. "I'll send you the list later. Why can't you enjoy your final year as a teenager?"

"What?"

"Enjoy your final year as a teenager." You laughed as he pushed his chair in. "I'm serious. You'll regret if you don't do something reckless just because you can. God knows I did."

"You're in your twenties, Gideon. You have just as much right to youthful recklessness as me." You redid your ponytail while Gideon, sneering, walked off. "Or have the living fossils you congregate with sucked all your mistake-prone young adulthood out of you?"

"They have not, but thank you for your concern."

You followed Gideon down the mezzanine's stairs, probing and prompting him with witty remarks all the way down, but he wouldn't bite. Probably too tired from last night, you hadn't seen him all day.

You harrumphed and waddled back over to the center of the floor. Then again, if there was one thing Gideon was lacking in, it'd have to be a funny bone. 

"Believe it or not, you can find some fine gentlemen in our retinue every once in awhile." Markson said as you approached. "Ones with senses of humor. You need to know where to look is all."

"Oh, definitely." You almost felt disrespectful with how sarcastically you said that. "You and Sir Friedman ended up there, that must mean something. Since when do you like to appeal to tribalism, anyhow? If I recall, you-"

"-Hate how none of those old gnats in the advisory have ever lifted anything but their own fingers, yes," the brunet huffed. "And I love my guards way more than their kind. But I can't discount Friedman for being a good guy, even if he isn't much of a wisecracker."

Markson was right; Gideon was a good guy. Getting kind of comfortable with an alleged killer and keeping your company kind of close to his chest, but a good guy. 

"Hopefully we can see more like him appointed when Prince Maxon takes the throne," Markson mentioned, making you cringe. 

There it was. You'd been actively avoiding drifting into thoughts of the prince since the night prior. It wasn't like anything happened. That was the problem, in fact. 

The minute after the two of you came to the separate realizations that, for one reason or another, the other thought Gideon's lectures were directed at them, the conversation fell off. The most that came out of it was you jokingly saying "I know why I think he was talking to me, why do you think he was talking to you?" And you pretending not to be disappointed with a cold answer you can't remember. You were locked in some kind of tense, one-sided mamihlapinatapai.

Mamihlapinatapai. You stopped. Even the word made you embarrassed for yourself.

Don't get too full of yourself, [F/n].  
There's an outstandingly high chance that whatever Maxon made of Gideon's rant wasn't at all romantic. And if it was, there's twenty some-odd other girls that could be the source of it. 

"Sod off, pal!" You heard Avery yell, and then a klaxon clang. You looked down at your boots.

Of course. It had to have been one of the other girls. One who wasn't going to be his goddamn minister president, and shouldn't be blurring the lines between their friendship and some flighty romantic feelings. 

One who wouldn't mix business with pleasure, one whose better fit to be a princess. Like.. like America. He likes her, she'd make a better princess than you. Her attitude, her stances, her figure..

You felt your upper arm. You remember that breakfast when there was an attack from the northern rebels. The girl's quivering figure as she clamored to get a shutter down—her ruby red hair, falling from its updo and fluttering onto her pale shoulders.

You remember, for a fraction of a moment, securing her in your arms, your hand over her mouth. Her hands, white as a lily, on yours. Noticeably chilled, as if she'd been holding a drink at the grand table a minute ago. How dainty and soft she was, like a porcelain doll. 

You traced your tricep. One of your maids called them muscular once, you think. It's not like it's your fault your childhood staples were lean meats and fighting. Was it bad that they were muscular? Not very princess-y?

Or your hair? You scratched your scalp. Your hair was pretty unhealthy, even for how pampered you'd been since entering the castle. Meanwhile, America's hair fell straight down her back as if it'd been drawn by a ruler. Celeste's fluffed like upside-down meringue. Kriss' cascaded over her shoulders and- oh my god.

Why are you even thinking about this? What's gotten into you? Nit-picking your one and only appearance like this? 

God. God. God. You wanted to run head first into a wall. The stress of the Selection was one you were supposedly removed from, yet the same sources of pressure those girls experience regenerated when you weren't looking.

More commotion, and then the distinct ring of a budding argument between Leger and Avery. If you couldn't navigate your feelings, you might as well burn them off.

"HEY!" You barked to them from the corner of your eye. The two froze like you'd caught them mid-murder. "YOU'RE GONNA CATFIGHT, HUH? MIND IF I JOIN?"

It looked like they might, but neither of them said anything, so you joined. 

The sun was going down, anyway. You did fantastic curbing communicating with people for most of the day. In about an hour, you and Markson could distribute rifles and pistol-whip these blockheads. Then, maybe, you could go to the library and unwind tomorrow. Work on whatever the hell was going on with the computer..

"I don't mean to be impertinent, ma'am-" Leger gasped, rocking onto his free arm and pushing himself to his knees amidst the kimura lock you currently had him in. "But four of the Selected appear to be staring you down."

"Doesn't sound like they're wanting to talk by your description." You spun around and put the guard into a headlock, and his sidebar commentary was reduced to sharp, strangled inhales and frantic tapping. "So if anything, Leger, it would appear you're remiss towards the far more pertinent bond you're in."

You slackened your hold. On cue, Leger slumped to the floor. "Man, you don't really take this whole weight class thing very seriously, do you? I may not be 200 pounds, but I'm at least a little bit of a threat."

"I don't think I need to say this," Avery squeaked, standing between Tanner and Woodwork, who were also awkwardly onlooking. "But Mme. [L/n] wins, 5-1."

"Anything below that I assume I can pick 'em up and throw them away," Leger wheezed.

"Nobody here besides Woodwork is eligible to pick someone up and throw them away." You rolled off of the guard's back.

Leger got to his feet, looked the 6'7", 265 lbs teenager up and down, and scoffed. "I mean, I haven't tried, but I could probably handle him." 

"You wanna?" You tried to mask the eagerness in your voice. Woodwork turned away, striking up conversation with Avery and Tanner. "You think you could lift him? Woodwork, get over here."

"Do we need to do this?" Woodwork bit his lip, looking away from you every other second. "With the Selected here?"

"Shut up, yes we do. For all they know, this is all routine." You guided Woodwork over to Leger and patted him on the back like a car salesman would pitching a monster truck. "Leger, if you can pick up this slab of granite, I'll take five miles of your jog tomorrow morning."

It looked like Leger's hand went to wring up his sleeve, but as the closest thing to sleeves on his outfit was chain mail, he resorted to rubbing his shoulder pad. "Well, call me Leonardo DiCaprio. Carter, hold still."

You shook your head. "Wrong guy, but that wouldn't have made sense either way."

Leger squatted and fastened his hands around Woodwork's waist. In doing so, he shoved his face into his friend's abdomen—reinforced with armor and, on a note of lesser importance, an elastic bodysuit underneath the steely layer. It's not like the recipient of the manhandling could feel anything, but the actions were still abashing enough for him to cover his face. 

Leger lifted with a grunt. Of course, save for exposed fabric bunching and disconnected metal shifting, Woodwork was as constant as the northern star. Leger released, red-faced.

"It's just-" Leger rubbed his hands and secured Woodwork from another side. "My grip slid."

"This is quite fitting, etymologically," you informed Woodwork as Leger continued to try and fail to yank him upwards. "His first name is a type of wood, and your surname is "Woodwork." Tastefully theatrical given our dilemma."

Woodwork did not respond, but Leger did, in spite of his lack of breath. "It's like pulling Excalibur from that rock!"

"The Sword in the Stone wasn't Excalibur, it was Caliburn." You checked your nails. "Arthur was given Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake after he broke Caliburn in his fight with King Pellinore of Listenoise. Are you done?"

"Not yet." Leger took in a final gulp of air and heaved. The most dramatic try yet, no doubt.

To your shock, though, you detected some upwards growth of Woodwork's height. The frame of reference you were focusing on, an arch below the mezzanine level of the room tangent with the top of the guard's head, had been obscured by his head. 

"Hold on." You squatted down like a referee in a wrestling match. The ball of Woodwork's foot edged upwards just short of a picometer. 

That can't be right. You examined the front of his shoes. This motherfucker really thought he could get on the tips of his toes and you wouldn't catch it?

"Never mind, Woodwork's being nice." You straightened yourself. "Extra five miles for you, acacia."

"Extra- that wasn't part of the deal!"

"Now, you know I don't like hanging my authority over your heads," you admitted. "The power imbalance paired with our close ages makes for a tense, at times unsettling dynamic, and I want you all to feel relaxed. That being said, keep talking back I'll add another five."

Woodwork had practically sewn his mouth shut. As for Leger, you couldn't spot a twinge of discomfort in his eyes. "Whatever you do to me, it couldn't be any worse than when we first met."

"Okay-" you exhaled, and Leger joyously elbowed Woodwork, but got no response from his fidgeting friend. You gestured to the display. "What? Did you tell him?"

"Oh, I told everybody," the soldier said. "There was already a rumor going around about you nearly killing a rookie guard after a rebel attack by the time my class was inducted. Thought I'd clear the air."

"Wow, birch, I never knew you to be so considerate," you mused, hand over your heart. "And for me? Aw, shucks. Ten miles."

"You're giving me overdone nicknames now?"

"Fifteen."

Even for an eager beaver like Leger, there comes a time and amount where he would prefer not to make his situation any worse. He did his best to convey something to you through a toothless smile and indecipherable hand signals, but you had turned away.

The Selected Leger has mentioned in passing were still present, standing idly by the base of the stairs. In groups of two, there was Kriss and Natalie, America Singer and Marlee Tames. 

Kriss disappeared behind Natalie as soon as you took her in. Again, you felt guilt reach out to you and beat down on your chest. 

What could you do to make it up to her? Wait, why do you feel the need to make it up to an enemy of the state in the first place? Wasn't you who decided to drag her outside and interrogate her after the Report. Why were they even there? Was the Women's Room too boring for them?

"Carter, if you two are done." Avery's voice, along with his tapping foot, broke through your train of thought. "I haven't had the chance to duel you yet. With swords, anyway."

"We aren't done, but thanks for consulting me," Leger spat back. You wiped the perspiration from your brow. Do they ever learn? Is that a thing these men can do?

You drowned out whatever Leger and Avery were starting with each other and waved to the feminine quartet a few yards back. Natalie wouldn't look at you, Kriss was already facing away from you, and America and Marlee were looking past you. 

Marlee appeared fine, perhaps a little pensive, but America looked like she'd seen a ghost. Her eyes were wide and pupils pinpoints, mouth parted in some kind of silent awe.

You looked behind you, just to check. 

"I'm not fighting with you. I'm not fighting with you." Nothing spectacular, that's for sure.

Woodwork had walked away by now, blushing a horrendous amount even for how embarrassing his teammates were being. You played it off; Woodwork was a sensitive guy.

As for Avery and Leger, they seemed a little more aggressive than usual. Little did he know, he wasn't impressing any of ladies. Any person, for that matter. You could understand where Woodwork was coming from, leaving and all.

But that wasn't important. What was, though, was getting on Kriss' good side again for the sake of mental homeostasis. And instead you were stuck babysitting these two, throwing down all of these exercises in friendship or whatever and none of it working. Which made your judgement look even worse.

Her birthday was coming up, wasn't it? You had already planned on making some grand gesture beforehand, but now it needed to be even more personal. It's not like you could ask her about anything now..

What did she like? She mentioned a couple of her favorite books in a conversation she, you, Natalie, and Elise had. Think, think, think.

"-You're the one bringing up old shit to grind my gears, so yeah." Leger shoved Avery from behind you, wiping whatever shards of memory you were recollecting from your mind.

That's it. Your personality analyses were wrong. You were going to kill the two of them with their weapons of choice and Markson would have to let it happen.

What did Aewyld suggest when you brought this up to her? Whatever avant-garde method she did use to suppress her siblings' feuds? Play re-enactments or singalongs or something.

Your head cleared. Kriss said she liked classic English novels. War and Peace and Pride and Prejudice were the only ones she listed. She said she'd make you read some once she got her hands on hard copies..

Hey. A lightbulb went off over your head. Kriss said she liked classic English novels, and Leger and Avery need to learn get along. Why not kill two birds with one stone? And you knew from your studies that virtually nobody in the guard was above a Five. 

Wow. You are a genius. An absolute genius. "Hey, idiots."

Leger, Avery, Woodwork, and Tanner all looked to you without a second thought. "You all used to be Fives or below, right?"

The quartet exchanged a look. One of the discomfiting nature of a superior addressing you by caste, combatting the fact said superior was of an equally low one.

"...Yes?" Tanner replied.

"Can any of you sing? Dance?" Leger and Avery looked away, pained expressions plaguing either of their faces. "You two? Really?"

"I'm- I'm a Five with dysgraphia, ma'am." Avery twiddled his thumbs. "How would I have gotten money without performance arts?"

"My, uh.." Leger trailed off, locking eyes with something over your shoulder. "My ex was a Five. A singer. She taught me how to, you know, sing. And stuff."

Your eyes narrowed.

A Five who specialized in vocals. A Five who specializes in vocals and has to be from Carolina, because that's where Leger was from. One who was probably 17, like him. 

A 17 year old Five from Carolina who liked to sing, and Leger was looking longingly past you, where a confirmed 17 year old Five from Carolina who liked to sing was standing. One who reportedly needed to get away from something at home, per Maxon's account.

Yeah, right. You shook your head. You sure like to play girl detective, don't you, [F/n]? There's millions of people who live in Carolina, and neither America nor Leger's scenarios are at all unique amongst teenagers. The chances that America's the ex-girlfriend in question is stupidly low. 

Availability heuristic, you concluded. That and poor deductive reasoning on your end. Like they even know each other.

...But he's looking behind you. Certainly at someone. What if they're from the same county. Wakeland, was it? Leger's file says he's from Wakeland. What's its population of adolescents? Maybe America's mentioned hers at some point in an interview. 

Or you could go up to her and ask. But that'd be weird. "How would you all like to do something for me, in exchange for lighter routines and other small benefits?"

"What is it?" Leger asked.

You clasped your hands together. "A play!"

*

"So I started looking things up, right?" You said, shuffling through papers. "And I've been looking things up, and I think I've found something I can pull off. It's a 2012 musical adaptation of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace."

"That could work," Markson, who knew next to nothing of the subject, considered.

"It's a long novel, but this covers only volume two, part five." You tapped the script paper. Markson drew a hand behind his back, and you stopped. "I have six weeks. I can grab some maids and guards who'd be willing and-"

"[L/n], I know I asked you how your day was, but we're in the middle of a simulated stealth mission."

"Yes, yes." You glanced back at the pile of unconscious guards you and Markson has accumulated sleuthing around. "My bad."

Okay. Okay. Easy. You've dealt with plays before. Theatre kids are just too easy to leech off of. You do one improv exercise with them and suddenly they're paying for your next fifteen dinners. So sure, you've been around enough assistant stage managers and ensemble to know what's kind of going on.

Someone would need to head set design, costumes, makeup... someone to handle lights and a sound booth guy. You could handle carpentry as the director. Of course, you'd need actors and actresses. An orchestra, but if you asked King Clarkson, he'd surely arrange it.

Maids traditionally come from families of Sixes, but some have backgrounds as higher castes. Guards and kitchen crew are unpredictable, but typically below Four or Five. Just the right demographic if you're looking for people with experience in singing and dancing.

With some quick scouting, this could work.

You and Markson turned into a dark corridor of the sub-floor as you folded up the paper and slipped it back into your pocket. He held up a hand, and you stilled.

He leaned towards you, his head at a tilt. "Hunter. Looks pretty out of it. You took out the rest of his squadron, want to finish it?"

"Sure." You slid beneath Markson's arm, searching for the shadow of the guard he saw. 

There. His silhouette could be seen barely poking out from the corner of a wall. What was he doing, not caring enough for practical covering that the back of his head was jutting out into the hallway?

Whether or not he was standing there to regain his bearings or conversing with another guard he ran into was intel you'd need before you made any moves, so you pinned yourself against the wall and moved up.

As you crept over, you could hear a flurry of hushed whispers coming from Hunter, increasing in clarity the closer you got.

"...-Get you out of here, sir."

"Like I said, I'm guard." Hold on. You knew that article-omitting voice.

"Then would you mind telling me where your three partners for this exercise are?" Hunter's shadow disappeared into the divot.

"Where are yours?" You cursed to yourself, pushing off the wall and resuming a normal, mildly irritated walk to where Hunter and Alexei Romanov mingled. "Now, if you'll let me, I want not get caught by Markson with all this incessant whispering. Let's move."

"Mister Directorate?" You turned the corner, Hunter jumping a good two feet into the air.

"Madame!" Hunter yelped, reddened, quieted down, pointed to Alexei. "Madame, I was just about to find you or Captain Markson. There's a-" 

«Oh, princess!» The broadest grin you'd ever seen painted itself upon Alexei's face. «What are you doing here? Are you this exercise's damsel in distress?»

"No, but it seems you've become the damoiseau." You grabbed his upper arm and pulled him out of the hall. "Hunter, I'm giving you five minutes to relocate yourself. I'll be escorting directorate Romanov back to his chambers. Please."

"Directorate Romanov?" Hunter gaped.

«Aw, princess. I was having fun! No need to be jealous.» Alexei stumbled into the hallway. In spite of his sullen child look, he threw his head back to where Hunter stood. "I will see you later, mon chéri!"

You slunk past where Markson lay hidden behind a horizontal armoire. "We have an intruder. I'll be taking him to the third floor, might be back."

"Sure." The vertically challenged wardrobe replied. Then, a limp hand popped up from behind it, held up by an iron grip on its elbow. It waved, or at least imitated a wave, and sank below the furniture.

You snorted. Funny. Judging by his laugh, Alexei thought so, as well. «This little hide and seek game you've concocted is quite thrilling!»

"Sir, what are you doing here?" You sighed. Now that he was in the light. "Does your mother know that- where did you get a guard's armor?"

«Unimportant,» Alexei soothed you. «That Friedman gentleman has gotten my mother superbly adjusted to your time zone. Quant à moi, not much. I've been touring.»

"If you'd like a tour, I'd be happy to arrange one for you."

In a burst of newfound pace, Alexei sped ahead of you, spinning around to face you. Now, with him walking backwards in front of you as you walked forwards, you started to ponder directing him into a wall.

«Would you take me on it?» He purred, slowing down. The space between your feet and his started to dwindle. 

You tried to go around him, but he'd step wherever you did. It was like a faulty magnet—attracted to you enough to follow, but repelled enough to leave a small, mystical, annoying barrier in between.

"No," you grumbled, looking anywhere but at Alexei. "I'm not that familiar with the palace."

You were so focused staring at your own feet that you hadn't noticed Alexei stopped until you ran into him. 

«I don't mind.» Alexei tossed his arms around you, pushing your chest against his. Casually, his hands slid to your hips. «You could tell me about yourself. I want to know everything.»

Instantaneously, your vision blurred. Your heart stopped. Your breath cut short. Your legs gave out. You were somewhere dimly lit. Somewhere you didn't want to be. There was someone there, a man. He was grabbing you.

Alexei's face began to melt into that of a total stranger's. Except it couldn't be, because the mind can't fabricate a face you haven't seen before. The man was trying to talk to you, but you didn't want to talk to him, and now he was grabbing you. 

He was asking about your father, like a lot of people would, and then your sister. But it was different this time. Where was your sister? Where was Harmony?

Stop. You stumbled backward. You weren't there. 

Your line of sight had somehow met the floor, where Alexei was splayed out. He was caressing one of his feet with one hand, inspecting the blood smear on the knuckles of the other. The source of the blood was his nose, crooked with a slight red stain below.

"Don't-" you gasped, vision recovering in a series of fast blinks. The fuzziness slipped away with the hot tears rolling down your cheeks. "DON'T touch me!"

Alexei, for once in his life, said nothing. He only looked up at you with doe-shaped eyes while you caught shallow breaths. "You want to know something about me? Don't touch me like that. There’s your goddamn fact!"

Alexei, bug-eyed, opened his mouth. Nothing came out. At least nothing quick enough for your stretched thin patience to await.

You shielded your pattering chest with a hand as you blazed by him. "Find your own fucking room!"

You just wanted to get into bed. That's all. Between ripping your hair out, you wiped off the oncoming onslaughts of tears as they rolled down your face. Go to sleep for ten hours. Not see a man for the next day or two.

Why did there have to be creeps on all tiers of life? You wanted to go back to the beginning of the Selection's simplicity. Where your primary concern was getting through the crown's "trials" and you could send any fudgeling cumberworld to a pink sand beach. 

You missed your maids. Your sister. One of the two were plausible. That of which was behind a narrow, diagonal door you stormed towards. You swung it open.

Zafira had a white towel draped over her head and was staggering backwards into the foot of your bed. The maid was grabbing at something that had snuck around her neck. Marca’s hands. 

Anima was leaning against the long side of the bed facing the door, hunched over, hands over her ears. She was the first to see you once she opened her eyes. "Milady!"

You thought you'd be walking into this in a bad mood, but with.. with whatever this was, you were blown out of the waves of despair and shock you'd been struggling to paddle in. The second Marca saw you, Zafira was out of her hold and coughing.

"You could've choked me!" She shouted while rubbing her past imprisoned neck. 

"What the hell's going on?" You asked, eyes still locked on the ermine-trimmed tassels for chains Marca had between her knuckles. Did you need to leave?

"Oh, miss- um. This, miss? The curtains?" Marca ejaculated, flailing the drapery along the floor as she stammered onwards. "It's nothing. Nothing. We're so-"

Anima was hit by the fluttering tassels of the veil Marca was flipping about. "They we're trying to see who'd win in a close quarters combat situation!"

"Yeah, and it'd be me!" Zafira bit back. "She surprised me!"

'Kay. The situation was getting old. You appreciated your maids' individualities as much as the next, and you asked for it, but sometimes you wish they'd try to act like maids no matter.

"Yeah, sure, just.." you rubbed your eyes. "Just let me get into bed. Please."

"Miss, what's wrong?" Anima's eyes were fixated on your face. "Have you been crying?"

"It's nothing." You looked at the clock above your windowsill. Half past twelve. Way earlier than when you've been retiring for the night lately. "Tear gas endurance training."

"Really?" Anima got to her feet as you brushed past her, looking to Zafira and Marca. "I don't remember Captain Markson mentioning that to us while welding?" 

Shit. You forgot you weren't the only one Markson approached after you walked into training with your new, sparkly gear. "Don't ask me, it was a last minute change in the schedule."

You could feel their eyes on you. "Okay, miss. Would you like us to leave?"

"I would like that, thank you," you mumbled, running the back of your hand along your pillow. Without a sound, the trio departed.

You wanted this day to be over. You wanted to go to bed. No more rotations of the Selected staring you down while you trained, no more misbehaving, instigating foreign diplomats inserting themselves where they shouldn't insert themselves.  
Just sleep, and then work. 

You climbed into your covers without taking your armor off. It's not like the sheets would tear—the worst you have on are hook and loop fasteners. 

Starting with sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ngl I’ve been kinda dissatisfied with the last few chapters but I promise things are getting better! I’ll be tidying up my pacing as of now


	22. Dearest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the brief hiatus, school started up and I lost a lot of motivation to continue this (as you could probably tell with the brevity/general badness of the latest chapters) but I’m good and getting back on track now! This ones on the shorter side, though. Sorry, simply a side effect of transitioning out of weird pacing/repetitive storytelling lol

Waking up the next morning, you were pleased to discover you had not damaged your blanket or duvet.

And you were similarly pleased with your decision that you would skip breakfast and go straight to training with the knighthood. Avoid girls or foreign diplomats you needn't involve yourself with.

It was nice, too. You hadn't much time for your own work nowadays. So nice, in fact, that you operated that way for a week.

Eat, sleep, attend to training and your restoration project with Gideon, repeat. Six blissful days. On occasion, you'd even find enough time to hang out with your maids. 

They were either kind or unworried enough not to ask about your change of behavior. Or your aloofness a few nights prior. If you didn't know any better, you'd say they liked having you around.

It was ten, which meant medical and close quarters combat training. Military history in the afternoon. No we-have-the-palace-to-ourselves stealth missions, confidential defense systems lectures, or emergency simulations. Just good fighting and tactical teachings.

Most of the men you were dealing with fell into the rexducere category, and hence had their own groups with their own leaders to push them through training. The media, however, preferred group activities, and you catered to their wishes during the day.

Plus, King Clarkson didn't like that some were catching onto the purpose for these breeds of guards. 

You didn't understand his desire for it to be covert—everyone knew the palace was a dangerous place to stay. But you respected his need to keep up appearances.

Likely to his chagrin (at least to yours), even without their fancy names with darker implications, these motley crews would be equally as embarrassing. 

One new addition to this, though, was the weird buzz surrounding your idea for a musical.

"Madame." Thamesh had pulled you aside, away from the cameras, and spoke in overzealous whispers. "I know this isn't related to our training, but I heard from Captain Markson that you were directing a musical, and I was hoping I could be in charge of set design?

"I love the musical. I didn't even need to hear the name to know what it was. I've never seen a live production, but I've got the deluxe edition cast album, which has a ton of photos from the original, and they built this amazing-"

"Definitely, but to be clear," you cut him off. "We have six weeks, not fourteen. You might want to reconsider however elaborate your vision is given the time crunch."

There was no dent in Thamesh's smile. "I'm not sure you know how bored the guard is, madame. Outside of eating and training, our schedule's pretty clear."

"Outside of eating and training, you have a quarter left of the day." 

Thamesh only smiled wider, and bounced off to where Yusuf, Mathouchanh, and Hunter were positioned in Markson's conditioning. You frowned and crossed your arms.

You weren't that detached from the knighthood, right? The only time you didn't see them was when they were getting upgrades or in the barracks, and for the former your maids were there to fill you in.

Either way, Thamesh was the third person to approach you that today, and it was only ten. 

You already silently designated Leger and Avery to be the male leads, but Woodwork asked to help with carpentry, and Lodge was already coming up with ideas for lighting during certain scenes.

Maybe it would move faster than you thought. 

You returned to Markson's aid, where you walked up on him questioning a group of knights who had finished one of their reps.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, sir," Charles wheezed, hands on his knees.

"In that case, congratulations, Charles. You just lobotomized your friend." 

The tired line of participants chuckled. Charles, on the other hand, paled, and turns to a comedically aghast Yusuf adjacent time him. "I- I needed to get an airway in. You said he couldn't breathe."

"I did, but I also mentioned that in this scenario Abdelmagid had a clear liquid excreting from his ears. Have any ideas about what that detail meant?" Markson's eyes scanned the row. The sniggers were quickly extinguished.

"Spinal fluid, sir," Leger, ever the teacher's pet, answered with his head held high. "Abdelmagid had—in the question—suffered damage to his skull."

"Correct." Markson's stare doubled in lethality. Charles gulped. "And you, Charles, the designated medic of your squad, shoved a piece of silicone up his sinus."

"Well, I-"

Markson blew his whistle, and the row sighed before assuming plank position. "You can thank your pal Charlie for this. Five minutes." 

Which was odd; all the enthusiasm. You were starting to get more comfortable with the decision to fully cut yourself out of the Selection, like what King Clarkson gave his blessing to. Because, honestly between whipping the knighthood into shape, gambling every Tuesday night, you and Gideon's project, and the Selection..

It was starting to weigh on you. You didn't want to admit it at first. The incessant reminders from Gideon, Maxon, and occasionally Markson helped with that, but it was more because you refused to be cared for like a child. How Maxon used to be, if you will. 

Yet they were right, and there really was no driving force to prove them otherwise other than your orneriness. There were too many sorta-kinda Selection things you were bothering yourself with when you didn't have to. 

Most importantly, you've concluded it's worsening his you're feeling towards Maxon as of late. All of the pink lighting and flowery smells were convincing you of feelings that weren't there, or at least not as strong as you perceived them. 

So you were going to take him up on his word to keep you from the Women's Room, and hope that Illéa wouldn't learn to loathe you so ardently he'd take it back. Get back on good footing with Kriss, the remaining metro-Selection issue, and be done with it.

But here the guards were, squealing amongst themselves about something you were preparing to treat like a shot. 

Because you were a bad person or something, you don't know. 

You just wanted to be out of the other girls' claws. It's not like you didn't notice how groups of them were frequenting the Mars' hall more and more often.

You already subjected yourself to the committee presidents and advisory nearly everyday, why chip away at your conscious more with them? You were working harder, not smarter.

"Do you want some bannock?" Out of his pocket, in front of his soldiers, Markson pulled half a loaf of unleavened bread round. 

..What? You lifted a trepidatious hand. "I'll.. I'll pass, thanks."

"Suit yourself." The man took a bite. Just. Just from a piece of unprotected bread he'd stored in his pants for god knows how long. "You should consider eating more, you know. You're a teen."

"A teen?" You quipped. "And you're four years older. Just as eligible to good nutrients for the sake of growth. Bread's empty carbohydrates."

"This is what the cooks are gifting us," Markson mentioned through chews. "That and pavlova, but this is easier to carry around."

"The cooks?" You asked.

"Yeah. They've been handing out pastries to us all morning." He lifted the piece of bannock. "A chef actually asked me to give this to you. At least I can say that I tried."

Since when are the cooks giving away food to the knighthood? You looked around, half-expecting to see fruit or beignets stashed away in cracks or corners. Only profusely sweating, late teenage boys as far as the eye could see.

"So how are the throttlebottoms handling our visitors?" Markson queried as he dusted some crumbs off his chest. 

"Markson, as much as I love your veracity, we're within ten feet of camera crews."

"They'll be needing to leave in five minutes, they're too busy packing things up to notice," he scoffed.

You rolled your eyes. You'd rather not think about it. "They're doing alright. I'm sure you're aware the Republic likes drinking and golf as much as us. Politics dilettantes, if you must. The prince repudiates them so far."

"As he should," Markson spoke, frowning. "I can only pray that boy will have some common sense to balance out the kerfuffle his retinue'll make."

You're not sure at what point the switch flips on young adults and they start dissociating themselves from people mere years younger than them, but Markson's surpassed that stage. "We all do."

Another notable thing during this period: you hadn't seen Maxon at all.

You weren't sure how to feel about it. There were times that you'd be struck with a joke or idea while Zafira was complaining about the inequality of your relationship, and be inclined to look for Maxon, but couldn't. Didn't.

You were waiting for everything to decay, at a minimum ossify. All you wanted was to stare at Maxon and feel nothing but anagapesis. Talk with him and experience solely friendship. 

This whole attraction thing was a real cumberworld.

When the groups were finished with their general warmups, you and Markson has them pair up into sparring partners.

"And on an unrelated note," you added in, trying not to smile at the worn yet giddy crowd. "The majority of you are aware of what I'm currently planning. I can't say with certainty when any auditions are, but if you're willing to work on tech, you can reach out to me."

The energy of the throng was perplexing. Guards were glancing to their friends, nudging each other, exchanging high-pitched whispers—even squeals. It was like watching an auditorium of middle schoolers gossip about a guest on stage.

"How thrilling this is to some of you unsettles me," you finished. "Go."

Maybe 60% of them dispersed. The others crowded around you and Markson, putting in requests for positions or departments. One of them started asking if they could reserve a spot for a friend in the kitchen.

By the time you had everyone mentally filed, you had well over a surplus of helping hands for stage crew. You were still busy counting everyone off when Markson started snapping near your face.

"[L/n], [L/n]." You flinched, head jerking up. Markson was in your periphery, pointing at something out of view. "Isn't that guy from the Republic?"

You followed his finger, and Alexei Romanov was circling the perimeter of the training grounds. Gideon trailed behind, huffing and puffing and smoothing down his suit.

Holy shit, what the hell was he doing here?

"Ugh. Yeah." You pulled out a loose follicle and began to walk towards the two. "I’ll ensure this to be the last time he tries to pull something with the guards."

"Wait." Markson stopped you, nodding to the news reporters encircling you. "The stations stopped breaking down camp."

You scoped out the news stations. The spokespeople muttered something to the camera guys, the rate they were folding their tripods and stowing away their microphones started to slow. 

You recognized one of them. Something Nnuri, fixing her hair. You caught her eye as she was tightening her sleek ponytail, and she smiled. 

They weren't allowed to stay just because they're interested in Alexei! These idiots had a curfew whether or not some bitch comes frolicking down the hall. You shouldered past Markson. "Christ."

"Hey-" he stuttered as you honed in on Gideon and Alexei. "You know, that was a warning not to engage!"

"That backfired."

"Stay here, I'll go." The captain swiftly shortened the distance between him and your targets. Alexei was the first to notice him; you couldn't get much of a read on his face, but he was smiling.

As the two began to converse, you looked to Gideon. You had spoken with him later in the evening yesterday. He never mentioned anything about showing Alexei around, and looked like he hadn't known he was going to.

Markson was saying something, but Alexei kept interrupting. With each verbal intervention he'd tap or pat Markson somewhere—his shoulder, his chest, whatever was in arms length. At some point he even went for his cheek, which Markson evaded.

You weren't stupid enough to mistake what he pulled a week ago for the physical contact he was attempting here. It romantic, but even in the slimmest chance it was more of a cultural, it wasn't as demeaning as what he tried on you. At the very least, he thought lesser of you than he did Markson.

But watching him try and fail to put someone else in a corner was a bit.. relieving? It took the minute threat you saw out of him. He couldn't hurt you. He wasn't worth the energy to slink around, fearing he'd try something. You've grown, and you no longer need a Harmony to defend you against these kinds of lowlifes. 

Markson started to walk away. You almost wanted to clap.

He's just another womanizer who didn't learn how to keep his hands to himself because everyone was too nice to tell him. There's no reason to be nervous of someone like that. He certainly wouldn't do anything in public, that's for sure.

Then, the collection of guards in your peripheral expressions' shifted. You came back to reality to see Alexei balancing a thin sword on his finger, watching the tip of it twirl in the air, padding around to keep it balanced.

There's a reason to tell him off. Markson sped back to from then which he came, a hand raised. The directorate continued his balancing act with the weapon, dancing about Gideon, who was trying his best to back away without bumping into him.

The tip of the handle, finally, slipped off his index finger. Markson and Gideon sucked in a breath the second it started to fall, and weren't even finished inhaling the second Alexei caught the grip in his hand.

«Kind of flimsy.» You heard him muse, waving the sword back and forth like a child would wiggle a pencil by it's eraser. The news station to the right of you had returned to relaying something to their cameras.

Markson looked to have conceded. He then proceeded to try and take the sword away from Alexei.

Alexei exclaimed something, and turned to the sea of guards. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck tingle. "Anyone? Fight?"

You watched Markson's formality erode like rock being carved out by water. His voice raised. "No, you are not fighting anyone, sir. The crown insists that y-"

"Captain Markson? Lady [F/n]?" 

You didn't consider yourself immune to the process of classical conditioning, but you'd like to think you had a sense of when it was happening. However, how instinctively your eyes scoured the room for the owner of that voice couldn't help but remind you of how much Pavlov's dogs must have salivated upon hearing their bell.

Maxon was at the base of the stairs, arm linked with America Singer's. You froze like you had stuck a fork into an electrical outlet.

Naturally, the reporters flocked the pair, leaving the knighthood, Gideon, Markson and Alexei to make unsupervised decisions. 

When you turned back, Markson was backing away from the scene, and Alexei shoved his sword into Gideon's clammy hands. He bounded off, his trajectory looking like a changing room on the outskirts of the grounds.

Of course. As Markson lumbered back to you, you pointed to the man's path. "Did you just tell him where our changing rooms are?"

He looked as livid as you, albeit acquiesced. "He's our guest, and he was about to throw a fit. We need to do as he says."

So much for whatever “the crown” was insisting. In the blink of an eye, Alexei was out of the locker rooms, admiring his new wear. With the added width to his frame, he was almost as massive as Woodwork. A mix between him and Leger, maybe. Not at all as enjoyable to be with.

"What, so he's-" your eyes darted between Markson, Gideon, and Alexei." "He's joining in on our practice? A sword dilettante against trained men?"

"Are you willing to stop him?"

Markson, before you could come up with an argument against it, waved you off. "Just- go greet the prince or something. I'll handle this."

As you approached the second floor where America and Maxon stood squirming, it became apparent that Markson was not handling this. You watched him he traipsed about in Alexei's shadow as you made your way up the stairs, however, whenever he got within arm's length of the man, he backed away.

So Alexei was left to challenge or flirt with whatever guard looked free. Perhaps both, depending on the circumstance. You felt a bile build up in the back of your throat as you reached the birds nest. 

Seeing Maxon with another girl—a Selected—looked off. You'd never really encountered him in the middle of a date, discounting that time with Kriss in the garden. It being America, the girl he most often talked to you about, wrought another wave of negativity. 

Here you thought the time away had helped. You spoke with a smile nonetheless. "Good morning! I haven't seen either of you in a minute."

Correction. That was half-true; you saw America yesterday in the early evening alongside Marlee. As per usual, they were watching lessons with discomfiting, lovesick looks—doe eyes, flushed cheeks, and bitten lower lips, a possible hand over their heart like they were reciting the national anthem.

You kept trying to search for continuities between the guards of each practice they attended, but your pool was still too broad for your liking. At is narrowest, you had Leger and Mathouchanh's rexducere teams, and you couldn't help but feel like there was some confirmation bias going into that evaluation.

You hadn't seen Maxon since the Swendish royal family arrived, though. That much was true. 

America bore a distracted expression, but gave Maxon's arm a soft squeeze. "A lot of us don't see Maxon for a minute or two, but yes."

You.. weren't sure how to take that. Prior to her elusive response, though, there was a shout from down below. You glanced at the first floor to see Leger and Alexei circling each other, blades drawn. 

It was at this America unlatched herself from Maxon's arm, nearly tripping over herself getting to the railing. What was so interesting about a kid from Carolina and a foreign diplomat?

A representative of Carolina, who was also raised in the Wakeland district, whose she has attended all of his practices..

God, is this where your keen observational skills have ended up? In this gutter? This was asinine.

"How are you?" You flinched as Maxon came to your side, nudging you with his shoulder.

"Tired of playing eccedentesiast with mister directorate over here," you sighed. "He's been inserting himself into one too many activities he shouldn't be allowed in."

"You're telling me?" The prince gawked. "Everyday, all he's been doing is bugging me and my advisors. It's like he thinks he's here on a play date."

"It hasn't been a very fun play date," you said.

"I had a better time watching my mother miscarry," he replied without hesitation.

...After playing that back in your head you had high confidence you hadn't misheard, you slowly covered your mouth and looked at Maxon. He remained indifferent in the face, but nodded knowingly. "It's okay, you're allowed to laugh."

You emitted some low, thrumming giggles under your breath. Inevitably, once the gates were open, the chuckling wouldn't cease easily.

You and Maxon laughed, then, for a little bit, and you felt a warmth in your chest blossom. One you hadn't grappled with in awhile. An urge to steal him away into his room, where you could paint, or talk endlessly about useless topics, or mock debate.

But you couldn't. "Did he do anything to you?" He suddenly asked.

You frowned. "Who?"

"Alexei." The prince matched your frown. "Your maids managed to find me and tell me you went to bed crying the start of this week. I sought out Markson, and he told me the last time he saw you that day was with him. I put two and two together."

That was a lot to unpack. You swayed amidst thoughts of maids' accessibility and Maxon's thought process and Markson's witness account. "Then.. then why didn't you check up on me?"

Maxon looked away. "I wanted to, of course. Then I thought better of it. I thought if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me. Most importantly, I figured the last thing a woman would want to see after a potential ill encounter with a man was another man."

Mixed emotions stirred within you. Those you couldn't even identify. You rubbed your eyes. Your mind was telling you they were watering, but you couldn't feel any tangible mist. 

"That's sweet," you mumbled. "You're so sweet." 

"I would appreciate it if he apologized to you." Maxon crossed his arms. "The-.."

In the face of bowel-shaking noises continuously coming from below, Maxon's voice was sufficiently drowned out. The two of you exchanged an unamused look, and joined America in viewing the bout.

Approaching the edge of the railing, you gasped.

Leger was slumped against one of the training ground's many pillars, head hung low. Alexei had both his and your guard's weapon, and was patiently poised about a yard away from him, like he was checking to see if the bug he stepped on was still moving. 

A glistening cinnabar trickled down the back of Leger's neck, flooding the engravings of his collar like water pools in tire grooves. 

You were back on the base floor in before you could say injury, getting to Leger right before the cameras that had been hovering over him and Alexei could close in. "Leger!"

«You?» When you got to the pillar, the first thing you did was slip your hand behind Leger's head. The warm wetness that coated your fingers only chilled your blood. 

You gently tugged his upper body away from the column. A red smear was left where his head used to be. When you inspected the back of his skull to see what could've made the imprint, a darker, oddly parted section of his hair on his parietal bone grabbed your attention.

"Is he alright?" Tanner was on your left, turning the knight's head over. "Leger?"

"I'm-" Leger suddenly came to, earning another sharp inhale and sigh from you and Tanner. "I'm fine. Just..."

His arm half swung, half moved in a controlled manner to the back of head head. You caught it before he could touch anything. "Stay still."

"I told you, I'm fine."

You looked up. Markson and Gideon were clearing out all of the news stations. With this new development, you found it safe to help the guard up with Tanner's assistance. "Find someone else and take him to the hospital wing."

"I can go with them!" You glanced over your shoulder to find America running towards you, barely keeping her near floor-length dress from the wrath of her high heels. "Please."

"It's not up to me." You looked at Tanner. He looked uninspired, that's for sure, but nodded nevertheless, and America threw Leger's unaccounted arm over her shoulders. 

The two were off, dashing to the other end of the Mars hall through a dispersing bundle of reporters. 

Now, Alexei. You found him amongst the guard again, still as a statue. "Are you insane? You were fencing, for Christ's sake!"

Even in a state of shock, the elitist cranked out a scoff. «You think I mean to do that?»

"I think you meant to shove one of my guards into a ionic column."

«I did not shove him.» Alexei pointed to the marble floor below your feet with Leger's foil. «It was a kick. He tripped over one of the crevices on the floor. Perhaps if this area was better maintained, this could've been avoided.»

"Perhaps if you practiced proper swordsmanship this could've been avoided!" You strode right up to the man, jabbing him in the middle of his chest with a finger. "We do not use our feet in a traditional duel. We do not aim anywhere below the chest in a traditional duel."

«I-»

"And because you couldn't resist those extremely illegal moves, mister directorate-" you pointed back to the stained pillar. "-A man has been hospitalized!”

"[L/n]," Markson said, grabbing your upper arm from behind. "You need to calm down."

"Calm down?" You fumed, whirling around to face the captain of the guard. "He just broke the back of your class topper's head!"

"I know." Markson started leading you away. You resisted.

"Are you aware why blows to the back of the skull is a dirty move in every respectable combat sport? Because it can damage your cervical vertebrae! Leger just had a brush with an irreparable spinal cord injury, and we're letting the perpetrator go?"

"Your Majesty." You could see Maxon hurrying over to where you and Markson stood struggling and grunting at one another. "Could you please get Lady [F/n] out of here?"

Maxon entered the arena, eventually pulling you out of Markson's hold and away from Alexei's eyes. "I will. [F/n], let's go."

"Just let me talk to him," you hissed, turning yourself around and pushing Maxon off of you. "I swear I'll only talk."

The prince wasn't nearly as well trained as Markson in keeping you at bay, so it would seem. He hooked his arms underneath your armpits, encapsulating you in some desperate bear hug. 

"Motherf-" your face was pushed into Maxon's chest. You struck his ribs with as much power as your closed fists could produce, but all your maneuvers made him do was cough and rearrange his hold.

Fuck. You could barely see and you could barely breathe. You raised your arm again and slammed it into the side of Maxon's neck, wrapping it around the rest of his throat, twisting, and pulling him into a hip toss the minute he fell onto your back.

Thankfully, he had the privilege of landing on the carpet you felt your boots dragging against earlier on. "Let go of me!"

Maxon didn't respond. He was on the floor, gasping for breath, holding his neck as tightly as you were your own. The two of you were stared at one another—the similarity yet difference of your fears coming to light. 

You nodded, and bent down to help him up. "Sorry."

"It's.." he rubbed the back of his head as he stood. "Fine. Not as roughed up as your guard."

"Ugh!" Hypocrisy!! You massaged your brows. "I'm so- I'm such a goddamn moron."

"It's okay, it's okay! Completely different circumstance. So that Alexei, right? Quite the character."

Your spirit was alight yet again. You looked around for some miscellaneous object to throw, looking back down the hallway. "God! So much for the preternaturally intrepid warrior kings Gideon had told me about! Where else could you find a recalcitrant despot than in a fubar republic?!"

"There goes your longiloquence," he crowed. 

"How magnanimous of you to mention, Maxon!" You exclaimed, throwing your arms in the air. "An advanced lexicon is my métier! Now that that's out of the way—and I don't mean to sound litigious—can we discuss how to proselytize your parents into kicking the eponymous out of Illéa before his pugnacity infects me anymore than it already has?" 

"They're egregiously puissant in the geographic area where we're about to go to war in, so no. Not without proper cause."

"My animadversions come from a place of objective perspicacity; this is a matter of the health and security of current palace dwellers."

"You aver that as if the palace was a Xanadu before the Republic had arrived."

Your hands shook in their animated position before your stomach. First, your run-in with him where he couldn't keep his hands to himself, and now Leger's incapacitation. "Constant as the northern star, are you?"

"[N/n], you know I've animus towards these people, as well. If I could get them out of the palace safely, I- oh."

Maxon's pace slowed to that of an atheist who'd mistakenly walked into a religious service. You stopped with him, bewildered. He was looking only at you, eyes wide and vulnerable. "Oh, dearest."

Dearest? You felt your neck and cheeks grow hot, and you went to cover them each with one hand.

"W-What?" You sniffed, but soon thereafter paused. Since when were you sniffling?

Reached out to touch your face, Maxon press a thumb right below your cheek and carefully retracted it for you to analyze. As you inspected the residue on the prince's fingers, you could feel lines of cold air starting to seep into your skin.

Maxon wiped the tears on his suit, and hooking an arm around the dip of your back, pulled you into an gentle embrace. "Sweetness, no. Did he do something to you?"

Your sudden tears smearing your face and pooling around your eyes. Maxon's hands fastening themselves around the apex of your hips. How snugly your face fit in the crook of his neck, and his cheek pensively pressed against your temple. You could feel his breath, warm and shallow, barely grazing your exposed neck.

"N-no, no-" you sputtered against the rise and fall of his chest like a kettle that'd been over a flame for too long. "No, this apoplexy is for Leger. I'm not so querulous as to-"

"I could have him removed," he mumbled, almost groggily. You felt a slight twinge against your scalp—the ghost of an unintended tug on a strand of hair. Then, you felt Maxon’s fingers rest along the start of your hairline, and the process restarted. "Did he do anything?"

Your incessant shivering was only stalled by the heat Maxon radiated encapsulating you. “Nothing, Maxon. Nothing I didn’t tell him off for.”

“What did you tell him off for?” Maxon guided you forward until his back had hit the wall of the corridor, right out of the sight of the knighthood. 

You debated whether or not to break away from his hold, but the scent of vanilla and sweet peas coming from his shoulder did well in obscuring your mental processes. You melted. “I.. I know you think I’m floccinaucinihilipilificating my comfort here, but I’m fine. He poses a danger to the guards, is all.”

“If he does anything to bother you, you tell me, alright?” Autonomously, your hands moved to return the hug. Barely—they more crept around Maxon’s sides, resting on the length of his back. Trying to keep physical contact with as much area as possible. “Or… or any of the guards. Or retinue. Anyone. I’ll have them abated.”

“How nice of you to do the right thing,” you mulled, pressing your forehead to the point his clavicle and sternum met. “But I don’t think I would want you to. Not a good look, you said so yourself with Alexei earlier.”

A shaky sigh filled your left ear, quieter and more muted than the already soft, timid sound of Maxon stroking your hair. His hand slid below the side of your face, lifting you up by your cupped cheek.

“[N/n], my dearest, I already punched my father for you,” he cooed with a slanted smile, running his thumb along your jawline. “You’re obviously an exception.”

His face was an eye sore shade of red. Everything flushed and on par with raw ruby, his cheeks by far the strongest chromaticity of the color you’d seen. And he wouldn’t stop smiling.

His stupid, dreamy smile. One that, until now, you failed to really notice. To analyze. How glancing between his eyes and grin, all you could see was adoration. Complete and utter, enveloping you like water would a diver. That feathery feeling in your chest stirred again, spreading like a fuzzy gangrene to the tips of your fingers.

With you staring at Maxon’s lips for so long, at least glancing between them and his eyes, you naturally noticed when they started to inch closer. When Maxon’s hand, resting the ends of your hair, slid up to your neck. 

Your noses had barely began to brush one another’s when a short, discreet “My god!” Came from behind you.

Maxon’s head shot up, you nearly snapped your neck turning around, and Gideon nearly dropped his earpiece. 

“Shit-“ one of the rare times Gideon ever cursed. Maxon had already pried himself off of you, beet red and ready to rip Gideon’s head off. “My- my apologies, your Majesty-“

However, as the prince stormed up to Gideon, the thunder in his step diminished until he was of equal distance between you and his advisor. He looked back at you. The look in his eyes you’d basked in moments earlier was gone; replaced with a sorrowful, almost desolate look. His smile had similarly vanished.

“What am I doing?” He croaked, and hurried down the remainder of the hallway without you.


End file.
